by S L Farrell
Cu’Bloch bowed to Jan. “I have already given my offiziers a description of the way she looked at that time, my Hirzg, though fifteen years changes a person, especially if that person wishes to change. She may look quite different now.”
Jan remembered very well how she had looked then: “Elissa ca’Karina,” she’d called herself at the time, and he had been deeply in love with her. He’d thought that it had been the same for her-he’d believed in their mutual affection so strongly that he’d asked his matarh Allesandra to open marriage negotiations with the ca’Karina family. Before the ca’Karina family had responded with the news that their daughter Elissa had died as an infant, the White Stone had killed his matarh’s brother Fynn, then newly crowned as the Hirzg, and fled the city. He’d glimpsed her one more time: in Nessantico during the war with the Tehuantin.
There, she had saved his life, and he could never forget the last glance they had shared. He was certain he had seen his love for her reflected in her eyes.
Even though he had married since, even though he felt a deep and abiding affection for his wife and for their children, when he thought of Elissa, something still stirred within him. He still looked for her, in the mistresses he took.
Why would she come back here? Why would she return to Brezno?
He found himself torn by conflicting feelings-as he had when he’d thought of her in that first year or two after he’d taken the crown of the Hirzg. He was repelled by what she’d done to Fynn, whom he’d loved as he might have an older brother, yet he was drawn to her by the memory of her laugh, her lips, her lovemaking, by the pure joy of being with her. He had tried to reconcile the conflicting images in his head countless times.
He had always failed.
Jan had sent agents searching for her in the years afterward. He wasn’t certain why, wasn’t certain what he would do with her if she were captured. All he knew was that he wanted her, wanted to sit down with her and discover the truth. Of everything. He wanted to know if she had loved him as he had her, wanted to know if she had only used him to get close to Fynn, wanted to know why she’d saved him in Nessantico.
Sergei ca’Rudka had suggested that Elissa-whatever her real name might be-might have been responsible for abducting the young Nico Morel from his matarh during the Sack of Nessantico. But when Jan had interviewed the young teni Morel who had at the time been assigned to the Archigos’ Temple in Brezno, Morel claimed to have no idea whether the woman-whom he called Elle Botelli-had ever been the White Stone, or where she might be now. “We always moved around,” Morel had told Archigos Semini, when asked. “She never stayed longer than half a year in any one place, and usually less than that. The woman was touched; I can tell you that-the Moitidi inflicted her with voices. That was Cenzi’s punishment for her sins.”
Morel-he was an enigma himself, no less than the White Stone: an incredibly charming and talented acolyte and teni who had been marked from the beginning for rapid advancement. But he’d become an eloquent and stubborn troublemaker who ended up cast out from the ranks of teni when he claimed that Archigos Karrol and the Faith were no longer supporting the tenets of Cenzi. Archigos Karrol, the upstart had insisted, must either acknowledge his errors or be forcibly removed from the throne. The young man had come closer to succeeding than either Jan or Karrol had expected. There were still teni within the Concenzia Faith who would follow the charismatic Nico if he called on them.
Jan shook away his thoughts. “Find this assassin-whomever she is,” Jan told the Commandant. “I don’t care what resources it takes. The White Stone or someone pretending to be her was in this city no more than a day ago. She may still be here. Find her.”
The Commandant bowed, smoothed his mustache once more, and left them.
“It can’t be her,” Karrol persisted. “It must be an impostor. It might not even be a woman.”
“Why? Why can’t it be her?”
Karrol sputtered momentarily. He wiped at his mouth with a large hand. “This just doesn’t feel right,” he grumbled.
Jan scowled. It shouldn’t matter, one way or the other. He was long married now, and if the affection he had for Brie ca’Ostheim didn’t burn as hot and bright as his love for Elissa had, he did respect her and enjoy her company. Her family had excellent political connections; she understood the duties, obligations, and societal niceties of being the Hirzgin. She had produced four fine children for him. She seemed to genuinely love him. There was a friendship between them, and she knew to look the other way with the occasional lovers he took. He should be content.
But Elissa… There had been more there. He still felt the passion occasionally, like the pulling of an old scar long thought to be healed. Now, that ancient scar felt entirely ripped open. The White Stone has returned…
There was nothing more he could do about it. Cu’Bloch would find her, or not. Jan took a long breath, let it out again. “Enough of this,” he said. “Archigos, what is it you wanted to talk to me about before the Commandant distracted us?”
Karrol lifted his head. The movement seemed painful; his knuckles tightened around his staff. “Ambassador Karl ca’Pallo of Paeti, the Numetodo A’Morce, has died.”
“I know that,” Jan said impatiently. “I saw the news in Ambassador ca’Rudka’s last dispatch. What of it?”
“I know you were reluctant to have the Faith move against the Numetodo considering the aid that ca’Pallo gave to both you and your matarh in the past. But… I wonder if now…”
“If now what?” Jan interrupted. It was the old, old conflict-one that Karrol’s predecessor Semini had believed in, that Semini’s marriage-vatarh Orlandi had fought as well: the Numetodo were a threat to all of those within the Faith-with their usage of forbidden magic, with their lack of belief in any of the gods, with their reliance on logic and science to explain the world. It was the battle that Nico Morel championed too, more voraciously and harshly than even the Archigos. Jan was far less convinced. For him, belief in the Faith was a necessity of his title and little else-it was like a political marriage. “You want to be become a Morelli now, Archigos, and begin persecuting the Numetodo again? I find that a bit ironic, myself, since it’s one of the things Morel wanted the Faith to do all along.”
“Morel was stripped of his title as o’teni because he would not accept the guidance of his superiors,” Karrol answered. “He was insubordinate and impatient and believed himself better than any a’teni or even myself. He claims to speak directly with Cenzi. He’s a madman. But even the mad occasionally say things that make sense.”
“You know my feelings on this.”
“I do. And I know your allegiance to the Faith is strong, my Hirzg.” Jan chuckled inwardly at that; Jan was no longer sure what he believed, though he made the required motions. “But-if I may be permitted a bit of blunt honesty, my Hirzg-you listen too much to Ambassador ca’Rudka. The Silvernose believes in nothing that doesn’t advance his own interests.”
“And you would have me listen more to you, is that it, Archigos?”
“I flatter myself that I know you better than the Silvernose, my Hirzg.” Jan sniffed at that. Flattering himself was one thing the Archigos did very well indeed. “Your matarh attaches herself to the Numetodo,” Karrol continued. “The reports I get from A’Teni ca’Paim-”
“I see those same reports,” Jan interrupted. “And I know my matarh. Better than you.”
“No doubt,” Karrol answered. “You undoubtedly know that Stor ca’Vikej’s son Erik is in Nessantico, also-no doubt he is looking for her help to gain the throne his vatarh couldn’t take. Each day Allesandra remains on the Sun Throne, she becomes stronger, my Hirzg.”
Jan scowled. He tended to agree with Karrol on that, even if he’d never admit it. He had given her the title she’d coveted for so long when Nessantico was broken and shattered. It had seemed an appropriate punishment at the time, an irony he couldn’t pass by. But she had managed somehow to turn that irony on its head. He had expected her to withe
r and fail, to realize her errors and beg his forgiveness and help; she’d done none of those things. She’d rebuilt the city and she’d managed to hold together the fragile connections between the various rulers of the countries that made up the Holdings. With Stor ca’Vikej, she’d nearly wrenched West Magyaria back to the Holdings-she might have succeeded, had she actually sent the full Nessantican army in support of the man’s ragtag army of loyalists. As it was, he’d had to put all of Firenzcian’s military might to bear in order to put down the rebellion.
The Firenzcian Coalition had been unable to profit from Nessantico’s misfortune. Il Trebbio had briefly joined the Coalition in the wake of the Tehuantin invasion, then a few months later had returned to the Holdings when Allesandra had offered them a better treaty and married one of the ca’Ludovici daughters to the current Ta’Mila of Il Trebbio. Nammaro had entered into negotiations with Brezno, then pulled away from them also.
No, his matarh had shown herself to be all too wellskilled politically, and Jan should have known. He should have seized the Sun Throne himself, should have brought the Holdings forcibly into the Coalition with his army still in the city. He could have done all that. But he’d been young and inexperienced and blinded by the chance to humble his matarh.
It wasn’t an opportunity he would pass up again. And if Silvernose ca’Rudka was right, he might have that opportunity. Soon.
There was a discreet, soft knock on the door-that would be Rance ci’Lawli, his chief secretary and aide, letting him know that the Council of Ca’ was in their chamber waiting for him. And there was a question he wanted to ask Rance, in any case: he had not seen Mavel cu’Kella for two days now…
Jan smiled, grimly, at Karrol. “Leave my matarh to me,” he told the Archigos, “and concern yourself with the work of Cenzi, Archigos. Now, I have other duties…”
Karrol, with little good grace, rose from his chair. Bent over, he gave Jan the sign of Cenzi. “The works of Cenzi extend even to matters of state, my Hirzg,” he said.
“So you always tell me, Archigos,” Jan retorted. “Interminably.”
Varina ca’Pallo
The day of the funeral was appropriately gloomy. Heavy, slumbering clouds sagged low in a leaden sky, flailing at Nessantico with occasional spatters of chilling rain. The ceremony in the Old Temple had been interminable, with various dignitaries spouting eulogies praising Karl. Even the Kraljica had stood up and delivered a speech. Varina had heard little of it, honestly. All their lovely, ornate phrases had run together into meaningless noise.
She sat in the first pew with Sergei and the Kraljica surrounding her, and she stared at the bier on which Karl’s body lay. She felt dead herself, inside. All the oiled and polished words of admiration might as well have been spoken in some foreign language. They did not touch her. She stared at Karl’s body. He looked wrong, as if the corpse was some poor waxen sculpture laying there. Perhaps Karl was standing elsewhere in the temple, laughing at what was being said about him. Sergei leaned over toward her at one point and whispered something into her ear. She didn’t hear him; she just nodded and he eventually leaned away again.
There was a mourning mask on her lap: a white, expressionless face of thin porcelain, the closed lips too red, the open eyeholes shimmed with wisps of black fabric, a black lace veil glued to the top and draped over the front. The mask was mounted on a long stick so she could fold her hands on her lap and still have the mask cover her face if she felt the need to be private. The mask seemed too much effort to lift, and it seemed wholly inadequate to cover her grief.
The murals of the newly-rebuilt Great Dome of cu’Brunelli had been draped with silken curtains: all the images of Cenzi and the Moitidi hidden because a Numetodo-a heretic, a horrible unbeliever-lay beneath them. She realized that without really seeing it. The sacred vessels and embroidered cloths had been removed from the altar on the quire, even the bas-reliefs carved on the thick buttresses had been veiled.
She should have been amused, noting that. Karl would have been, certainly. She was amused, somewhere distantly. She felt as if “Varina” were somewhere outside, observing this dull, wooden simulacrum of herself.
Varina realized that the people were standing around her, that several of the Numetodo had moved to their positions alongside the bier. The plan was for the bier to move in procession through the streets around the Old Temple to the outer courtyard of the Kraljica’s Palais, where the pyre awaited the body. It was a relatively short distance of about two and a half blocks in the Isle a’Kralji-far, far shorter than the grand processions for Kraljica Marguerite or Kraljiki Justi, which had followed nearly the entire circle of Avi a’Parete around the city.
Nessantico was still careful about celebrating the Numetodo too much.
She would watch his body be consumed by the flames, and afterward
Varina didn’t want to think about that. She didn’t want to contemplate the rest of the day, returning to the Ambassador’s residence on the South Bank where Karl’s ghost would haunt every corner and every memory, where she would constantly be reminded of the loss she had suffered.
She would never sleep next to him again. She would never hold him again. Never talk to him. She felt emptied of everything important, felt dead herself. Someone could cut off her hands or drive a knife into her heart and she would feel nothing.
Nothing.
She was standing with the others. She realized that belatedly, wondering whether she had risen herself or whether someone had helped her up. She didn’t remember. She blinked, heavily. The bier with Karl’s body, resting with hands folded atop his fine white bashta and the green sash of Paeti, was passing her; she shuffled out directly behind it with the others following. Sergei remained at her side, his silver-tipped cane tapping on the flags, his silver-tipped face gazing sternly forward; Kraljica Allesandra and A’Teni ca’Paim were directly behind them, then the various ca’and-’cu’ of the city, the diplomatic representatives living in Nessantico, and finally those of the Numetodo.
The doors of the Old Temple were pushed open. Even under the dreary sky, the light made Varina narrow her eyes. She could taste rain in the air, and the flags of the plaza were damp. The curious had come out as well: they crowded behind the ranks of Garde Kralji and utilino who were keeping a wide corridor open for the invited mourners to pass through. Varina could feel their stares on her, and she lifted the mourning mask to her face, closing out the world.
The carriages were there, waiting, along with the flatbedded funeral wagon drawn by three white horses in a four-horse harness, the left front space glaringly vacant. Behind the funeral wagon were two of the Kraljiki’s carriages drawn by black horses, one carriage for Varina and Sergei, who would ride with her; the other for the Kraljica Allesandra. A’Teni ca’Paim’s carriage was next, without horses, only a driver-teni in white mourning robes sitting on the seat, ready to turn the wheels with the power of the Ilmodo. The remainder of the mourners would walk behind-those who wished to follow the procession to the pyre. Many would not, Varina knew-they had already been seen, which was primarily why they were here: so the Kraljica and A’Teni ca’Paim noticed their faces and knew they had performed their social duty and paid their respects.
A servant opened the gilded door of the carriage for her and proffered a hand to help her up. She felt the suspension dip under her weight, then dip again as she settled into the plush leather seat and Sergei put his weight on the step and ducked to enter. She let the mourning mask fall back into her lap. He smiled gently at her as he settled into the seat with a groan while the attendant closed and latched the door.
“How are you doing, my dear?” he asked. He groaned again as he shifted position on the seat. She heard his knee crack as he flexed it.
For a moment, she heard nothing but nonsense syllables. It took her a breath to process the question and have it make sense. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “But I’m glad you’re here with me. Karl… Karl would have appreciated it.”
&nbs
p; He leaned forward and touched her knee with a thin hand momentarily-the gesture of a confidant. Shadows slid over his silver nose, around the much-wrinkled face. “He was a good friend to me, Varina. Both of you have been. The two of you literally saved my life, and I will never forget that. Never.”
She nodded. “That debt, one way or another, was paid and repaid between you and Karl. You needn’t worry.”
“Oh, I don’t,” Sergei answered, and she pondered that remark before letting it waft away like the rest. Unimportant. The carriage lurched, one of the horses snorting, and they began to move. She could hear the steel-rimmed wheels clattering on the uneven paving stones of Old Temple Court. She sat silently, neither looking at Sergei nor at the view outside, but inside her own head, where Karl’s face still lived. She wondered if she would begin to forget the familiar lines, the crinkled smile, and his eyes. She wondered if he would fade, and one day when she tried to conjure up his face she’d be unable to do so.
She heard voices outside the carriage, but she paid them no attention. Sergei, however, had straightened in his seat across from her and moved the curtains aside with a hand, his silver nose pressed against the wavy glass there. Past him, she could see the lines of onlookers beyond the gardai, and beyond them…
A huge person had appeared: a giant dressed in green, his head larger than the carriage in which they rode and his shoulders as wide as three men abreast, clad in an imitation of teni-robes and his eyes glowing with a red fire that sent shadows racing out toward the carriage from the people between them. The chanting voices seemed to come from that direction, and she realized that it wasn’t a person but some sort of gigantic puppet, manipulated from below by poles. It bobbed and weaved over the heads of the onlookers, who were turning now toward it rather than the funeral procession.
