A Magic of Dawn nc-3

by S L Farrell

  He gave her, without any apparent irony, the sign of Cenzi and turned his back to her. The mad dog… You could take care of it now. She clenched her right hand into a fist; she tried to hear Karl’s voice, but there was nothing. Nico began to walk away slowly.

  Now, or it will be too late…

  Varina sat unmoving in her seat, staring at the black cloth of his back as he made his way through the tavern patrons to the door.

  Nico opened the door and left. From somewhere in the street, she heard the barking of a dog. It seemed to mock her.

  PROGRESSIONS

  Niente

  The sea was calm, and the nahualli that Niente had set to bring the winds were working their spell-staffs hard, the prows of the ships carving long trails of white water. Niente gazed out from the aftcastle of the Yaoyotl, which had begun life as a Holdings warship before its capture fifteen years ago. The Yaoyotl had made this crossing once before, when Tecuhtli Zolin had made his foolish and fatal invasion of the Holdings. Now, it was cruising eastward once again, this time accompanied by over three hundred ships of the Tehuantin navy, three times the number Zolin had used, with an army aboard the size of that which had crushed the Holdings forces in Munereo and the other cities of their cousins’ land on the shore of the Eastern Sea. Niente could look out over the rails of the Yaoyotl and see the sails, like a flock of great white sea birds covering the ocean.

  The sight was formidable. When the Easterners saw it approaching, they would tremble and quake. Niente knew this to be the truth; he had seen it in Axat’s visions in his scrying bowl. He saw it again now, as he brought his gaze down to the brass bowl in front of him. He had dusted it with the magical powder, and he had used the power of the X’in Ka to open the path-sight. Now, he peered into the green-lit mists, with his son at his side and his attendant nahualli watching him carefully. In the mists, scenes flitted by him: he saw the great island of Karnmor sending a great fume of smoke and ash into the sky as the ground trembled and the sea itself writhed in torment. He saw the great Tehuantin fleet ascending the mouth of the River A’Sele, saw their armies crawling the shore, saw the walls of Nessantico and its army arrayed there.

  But he frowned slightly as he stared; before, the scenes had the hard-edged clarity of reality. Now, they were smudged and slightly indistinct, as if he were seeing them more with his own eyes than with Axat’s help. It troubled him.

  Where is the Long Path? Why do You hide it from me, Axat?

  No, there it was… Once again, he saw the dead Tecuhtli and the dead Nahual, and beyond them, the Long Path. But it, too, was no longer as clear as it had been. Interfering visions slid past between him and the path, as if Axat were saying that movements were afoot that had twisted and snarled the threads of the future. Niente peered more closely, trying to see if he could still find the way to the Long Path. He moved backward in time, saw the myriad possibilities unfolding…

  He could feel his son Atl close to his shoulder, staring into the scrying bowl and holding his breath as if afraid that it would pierce the mists and destroy the vision. Niente knew what came next; he also knew that he could not let Atl see it. Niente exhaled sharply, the green mist swaying, and grasped the bowl. With an abrupt motion he sent the water cascading over the rail and into the sea, hissing coldly. At the same time, Niente felt the weariness of the spell strike him, causing him to stagger as he stood there. Atl’s arm went around his waist, holding him up.

  He took a long breath, setting the scrying bowl back on the table. He straightened, and Atl’s hand dropped away from him. “Clean this,” he said to the closest of his attendants; the man scurried forward and took the brass bowl, bowing his head to Niente and hurrying off. “I will rest now,” he told the others, “and talk to Tecuhtli Citlali afterward. There was nothing new in the vision.”

  They bowed. He could sense them watching him: was he weaker than he had been? Were the lines carved deeper in his face, were his features more twisted and deformed than before, his eyes more whitened with cataracts? Was this the time to challenge him, to become Nahual myself? That’s what they were thinking, all of them.

  Perhaps his son no less than any of the others.

  He could not let that happen. Not yet. Not until he had fulfilled the vision he’d glimpsed in the bowl. He forced himself to stand as upright as his curved spine allowed, to smile his twisted smile, and to pretend that his body hurt no more than was usual for a man his age.

  The nahualli, with polite protestations, began to drift away to their other tasks.

  “You stopped the vision before it was finished,” Atl said quietly.

  “There was nothing more to see.”

  “How do you know that, Taat? Haven’t you told me that Axat sometimes changes the vision, that the actions of those in the vision can alter the futures, that you must always watch for changes so as to keep to the best path?”

  “There was nothing more,” Niente said again. He could see the skepticism in his son’s face, and the suspicion as well. He forced anger into his voice, as if it were twenty years ago and Atl had broken a bowl in the house. “Or are you ready to challenge me as Nahual yourself? If you are, then ready your spell-staff.” Niente grasped for his own, leaning against the table on the aftcastle, the knobbed end polished with decades of use, the carved figures dancing underneath his fingers. He leaned on the spell-staff as if it were a cane, letting it support his weight.

  Atl shook his head, obviously not willing to let go of the argument. “Taat, I have the gift of far-sight also. You know that. You can fool most of the other nahualli, but not me. You’ve seen something that you don’t want me to see. What is it? Do you see your death, the way you did that of Techutli Zolin and Talis? Is that what it is?”

  Niente wondered whether that was fear or anticipation he heard in Atl’s voice. “No,” Niente told him, hoping the young man couldn’t hear the lie. “You’re mistaken, Atl. You haven’t learned the far-sight yet enough to know.”

  “Because you won’t let me. ‘Look at me,’ you always say. ‘The cost is too high.’ Well, Taat, Axat has given me the gift, and it would be an insult to Her not to use it. Or are you afraid that I will want to be Nahual in your place?”

  The salt wind ruffled Atl’s long, dark hair; the canvas above them boomed and snapped. The captain of the Yaoyotl called out orders and sailors hurried to their tasks. “You will be Nahual,” he told Atl. “One day. I’m certain of that.” I’ve seen that… He thought the words but would not say them for fear that saying them would change the future. “Axat has gifted you, yes. And I’ve… I’ve been a poor taat and a poor Nahual for not teaching you all I know. Maybe, maybe I’ve been a bit jealous of your gift.” He saw Atl’s face soften at that: another lie, for there was no jealousy within him, only a slow dread, but he knew the words would convince Atl. “I would like to start to make up for that, Atl. Now: this evening after I’ve talked to Tecuhtli Citlali. Come to my cabin when they bring me my supper, and I will begin to show you. Will that do?”

  In answer, Atl hugged Niente fiercely. Niente felt him kiss the top of his bald head. He released him just as suddenly, and Niente saw him smiling. “I will be there,” Atl said. He started to turn, then stopped. He glanced back over his shoulder. “Thank you.”

  Niente nodded, and gave his own lopsided smile in return, but there was no passion in it, no joy.

  He wondered how long he could keep Axat’s vision secret. He wondered-if Atl came to realize what that vision meant-if he would be able to achieve that vision at all.

  Sergei ca’Rudka

  The fields along the Avi A’Firenzcia were bright with the tents of the Coalition army. “On maneuvers,” the aide from the Brezno Palais staff who escorted Sergei from the border to Brezno told him, but both of them knew what it really was: a mustering and a direct threat. A communique had come to Sergei from Il Trebbio before he’d crossed the border, informing him of the incursion of a battalion under control of Starkkapitan ca’Damont into Il Trebbio t
erritory. The battalion had withdrawn, but it had obviously been probing to see what response it might provoke.

  And now this massing of troops near the border of Nessantico…

  Jan, what are you up to? Do you really want to poke at the Holdings with this stick?

  Sergei knew already, as his cane tapped along the marbled flags of Brezno Palais on his way into his meeting with Hirzg Jan, how it would end. The strap of a small diplomatic pouch was looped over his shoulder, and he had gained enough skill over the years to have opened the sealed letter inside and read what Allesandra had written there. The Hirzg’s aide Rance ci’Lawli bowed as Sergei approached the outer reception room of the Hirzg’s apartments. His face was pleasant, but underneath, there was a disdain: Sergei knew that Rance was one of those advising the Hirzg to keep the Coalition intact and to refuse any compromise with the Holdings. “The Hirzg is just inside,” Rance said, “but he begs the Ambassador’s indulgence, as he’s with the Hirzgin and his children. A mark of the glass…”

  “I would love to see them myself,” Sergei told Rance, “so I could bring a report to their great-matarh on their appearance.”

  Rance shrugged and favored him with an insincere smile. “A moment, then, and I’ll inform the Hirzg,” he said. He turned to one of the hall servants. “If you would escort the Ambassador into the outer room and fetch some refreshments for him.” Rance bowed again and vanished down the hall. Sergei followed the servant into one of the waiting rooms, accepting a glass of wine and a plate of sweet cheese retes. Not long after, Rance returned and escorted him down a short hall to another door. On the other side, Sergei could hear several voices and the laughter of children. Rance knocked twice firmly, and then opened the door.

  The two oldest children, Elissa and Kriege, were playing at a chevaritt board set on the table, with the Hirzg looking on; the younger son, Caelor was watching from behind his brother’s shoulder. The youngest, Eria, was sitting on her matarh’s lap near the window, toying with the knitting piled there, while a nursemaid folded diapers and clothes on a bench near one of the doors leading out of the room. “The Ambassador ca’Rudka,” Rance announced as Sergei stepped into the room, the sound of the cane muffled by the thick rug there.

  Elissa turned to look. “Vatarh, it’s Old Silvernose!”

  “Elissa!” Jan shot Sergei a look of apology. “That’s terribly rude.”

  “Well, that’s what Starkkapitan ca’Damont calls him,” she answered, her face twisted into a scowl, her arms crossed over her chest. One of the game pieces, a war-teni, was still clutched in her hand.

  “You still need to apologize to the Ambassador,” Jan told her, but Sergei coughed gently, interrupting him.

  “That’s not necessary, Hirzg. I’ve been called far worse, and at least both parts of that nickname are true. By the way, there are presents for the children from their great-matarh in my rooms at the embassy; I’ll have them sent over this afternoon.”

  “Presents!” The shout came from all three of the oldest children at once, and even Eria glanced up from her efforts to tangle Hirzgin Brie’s knitting.

  Sergei laughed-in truth, Jan and Brie’s children did amuse him. They were bright, engaging, and healthy. It was a shame that Allesandra didn’t know them as well as he did. “If you go tell Rance, I’d wager he’d send a messenger over to fetch them for you now-if that’s all right with your parents.”

  “Vatarh? Matarh?” Elissa immediately shouted. “May we?”

  Brie smiled indulgently, glancing at Jan. “Go on,” she told them, giving Eria to the nursemaid. “And wait for them in the playroom, please. Don’t keep pestering Rance.”

  The children went out with their nursemaid, calling for Rance. “They’re lovely children,” Sergei said as they left. “The two of you have been very lucky.”

  “That’s what people say who aren’t parents themselves,” Brie told him, smiling.

  “I’m certain that all of your children are perfectly behaved all of the time.”

  Both Jan and Brie laughed at that. “We’ll lend them to you while you’re here, Sergei,” Jan said. “That will change your mind.” Then the smile collapsed, and he waved Sergei to one of the chairs at the table. Sergei saw his eyes glance down toward the diplomatic pouch at Sergei’s hip. “But I’m certain you didn’t come here to compliment us or to deliver presents. What has my matarh to say? The last time you were here you said that you hoped to broker a compromise and have her name me as A’Kralj. Has she agreed to that?”

  Sergei glanced at the chevaritt game in progress before him before answering. They were playing two-sided, and the number of pieces still on the board were about equal. Yet Sergei saw a flaw in the way Kriege’s pieces were set: if Elissa moved her vanguard three spaces, she could be behind Kriege’s lines. He would have to bring three of his chevarittai over to protect himself-and that would leave two of his keeps open to siege from the other flank.

  He wondered whether Elissa had seen that, also. From the positions of the pieces, he suspected she had.

  “Elissa always wins,” Jan said, evidently noticing Sergei’s attention to the board. “I like to think that, in the game at least, she is demonstrating her heritage.” His fingers spread, Jan moved the pieces of her vanguard: three spaces forward. Sergei looked up, stroking the side of his nose.

  “Ah, then you see it also.”

  Jan smiled. “In the same way that the fact that you haven’t answered the question I asked you also tells me how the Kraljica has responded.”

  Sergei reached into his diplomatic pouch, removing the resealed letter. He placed it on the table, his forefinger tapping the thick paper near the red wax seal. “The Kraljica has tendered a… counteroffer.”

  Jan glanced at the letter without reaching for it. “Then let’s hear it. I assume you’ve read it already, even though the seal is still intact.”

  “That would be improper of me, Hirzg,” Sergei said. He heard Brie clear her throat. He glanced at her; her regard was on her knitting. She seemed to feel the pressure of his gaze and spoke without looking up from her needles.

  “Allesandra says that if we continue to threaten her borders, she will take action,” Brie said. “She sees the offer Jan has made as a ‘capitulation,’ not a compromise. She suggests instead that the Hirzg should dissolve his foolish Coalition and again become the ‘strong right arm’ of the Holdings.”

  Sergei nearly laughed. “Do you have an ear in the Palais, Hirzgin? ‘Capitulation’ is exactly the word the Kraljica used.”

  Brie set down the knitting in her lap, looking up. “I know how she thinks,” she answered. Amusement lurked in the corners of her mouth. “It’s the same way my husband thinks.”

  “Brie-” Jan began to protest, and her gentle laugh silenced him.

  “That’s not a criticism, my love,” she said. “I admire you; I always have. But you are your matarh’s son.” She returned to the knitting, the needles making a sound like distant swords clashing. “And that’s the problem-if one or the other of you were a poorer leader, then there would not be a Holdings or a Coalition, but only one empire.”

  “That was my mistake,” Jan said. “I could have achieved that fifteen years ago. I could have taken the Sun Throne myself.” He glanced at Sergei, who had arranged his face in careful neutrality: no nod, no expression of agreement or disagreement. “But I was young and I wanted to teach my matarh a lesson. Instead, I have found myself the student.”

  Again, that faint amusement slid over Brie’s mouth. “You both want the same thing-you always have. Unfortunately, you also both feel your vision of the world is the correct one.” She set the knitting down on the bench alongside her and rose, going to Jan. She took his arm, leaning into him and kissing his cheek. “I love you, my dear, and I share your vision. But I also understand how your matarh might see things.”

  Jan’s arm went around her, pulling her tightly to him. Sergei rose from his chair, his knees cracking like dry twigs underfoot. He leaned
on his cane and tugged his overcloak around himself. “I’ll leave the two of you to read the Kraljica’s reply and compose an answer for me, though I can guess what it might be. If you’d like, we could discuss the letter and what possibilities there might be for coming to some more equitable terms-would the two of you be willing to take supper in the embassy tonight? I’m told we have a new chef who specializes in delicacies from Navarro…”

  “We’d be delighted,” Brie answered, and Jan nodded a moment later.

  “Then I will see you tonight-a turn of the glass after Third Call? Good…”

  He bowed to the couple, and went to the door, knocking against it with his cane. One of the hall servants opened the door for him. He wondered, as he walked down the hall to the gate where his carriage waited, how long it would be before son and matarh were again at war.

  Nico Morel

  They’d hastily erected the podium in Temple Park, not far from the ancient temple there-the oldest (and smallest) of the temples of the Faith in Nessantico. Originally, they’d agreed that Ancel would be the speaker and that they would remain there no more than a mark of the glass-not enough time, hopefully, for the utilino nor the Garde Kralji to respond, though Nico had arrangements for distractions should they arrive. Nico himself would not speak; he would watch from behind the podium with Liana and the rest of the inner circle of the Morellis, ready to flee and vanish into the warrens of Oldtown if there was an assault by the authorities on their gathering.