A Magic of Dawn nc-3

by S L Farrell

  “I’ve not spoken to them all, though I’ve sent messages to them,” Jan told her. “Sesemora is the strongest of them outside Firenzcia, and therefore the most dangerous, but Brie is the first cousin of Pjathi ca’Brinka and the family connections will prevail. Miscoli will fall in with Sesemora. East Magyaria knows that Tennshah’s troops would be swarming over its borders without Firenzcia’s protection. West Magyaria…” Here he stopped and glanced-once-in Erik’s direction. “The Gyula is our man.”

  Allesandra saw Erik grimace, then slip a smile like a mask back over his face. “Perhaps the fate of West Magyaria isn’t quite as settled as you believe, Hirzg Jan,” Erik said. “Perhaps the Kraljica has other plans.”

  “Oh?” Jan asked. “Is this true, Matarh? Do rebels, traitors, and incompetents give commands in the Holdings? Are you planning to make the Hirzg of Firenzcia as irrelevant as you did the Archigos? That won’t work, I’m afraid-I hold the high cards in this game, unless you want Nessantico overrun by the Westlanders.” There was genuine anger in his voice now. She glanced at Erik once more. He nodded to her and smiled. She looked away.

  “Even with Firenzcia, I’m afraid there’s still no guarantee that the Tehuantin won’t prevail,” she told Jan. “Their army is far larger than the one they brought before, Commandant ca’Talin has been unable to slow their advance, and what they did at Karnmor…” She shivered, involuntarily. “But in answer to your question, no” she said, more firmly. “I make my own decisions as to what is best for Nessantico-as you will, too, Jan. As we will together.”

  She paused. You’re still certain you want to do this? Erik was grinning, confident, and the presumption there irked her. She already knew the answer-because she knew that, inevitably, with Erik and Jan it would come down to choosing between the two of them. She raised her glass to Jan. “If the current Gyula is satisfactory to you,” she told him, “then he will remain Gyula.”

  “What!” Erik gave a shout of outrage, rising to his feet. Talbot rose at the same time, and the gardai at the door stiffened. “You promised me,” he shouted at Allesandra, his face gone red. His finger stabbed air. “I trusted you. You and I have shared your-”

  “Silence!” Allesandra thundered in return. “If you say a word more, Vajiki, you’ll find yourself in the Bastida. That is my promise. You’re no longer welcome in my presence. You have this night to leave Nessantico. Go where you will, but if you’re here at First Call tomorrow, you will be declared a traitor to the Sun Throne and hunted down accordingly. If you’re caught, you’ll be sent to West Magyaria for trial by the Gyula’s court.”

  “You can’t mean this.”

  “Oh, but I do,” Allesandra told him.

  “I meant nothing to you, then? The time we spent together-”

  “-is done with,” she finished for him. “It’s one thing for a Kralji to make a mistake, Erik. It’s entirely another to continue to make it. Did you think I would exchange the good of the Holdings for simple affection? If you did, you never knew me at all.”

  “I know you now,” Erik spat. “You’re a cold, cold bitch.”

  It should have stung. It didn’t. She felt nothing at all. “Erik, you are wasting what little time you have.”

  Erik glared. He fumed. But he clamped his mouth shut and stalked away from the table. The gardai opened the door for him. His bootsteps faded away down the long hall as the doors closed again.

  “Matarh, you do amaze me,” Jan said. He looked around the table at Starkkapitan ca’Damont, at Sergei and Varina. “Which one of us leaves next?”

  She ignored the sarcasm. “The Archigos needed to realize his place,” Allesandra told him. “We don’t need the distraction of having to placate the Concenzia Faith in this crisis. And as for Erik…” She shrugged. “I’m afraid I made a poor decision, and it was time to rectify it.”

  “Actually, if you don’t mind the correction, you made two poor decisions-you also backed his vatarh.”

  She started to argue. No, let him have that much of a victory here. He’s uncertain and worried. “I’ll accept that.” She nodded to Sergei, Varina, and ca’Damont, who sat silent through the exchange. “I’m sorry all of you had to witness that. I hope you know how much I value your advice and your counsel, Sergei, Varina. Both of you are vital to the Holdings, especially now. And Starkkapitan ca’Damont, your expertise will be essential in the coming days. Now… Let us talk of what faces Nessantico, and how we might prevail…”

  Brie ca’Ostheim

  It took two days to catch up with the supply train of the army, and another half-day to move through seemingly endless triple lines of infantry toward the command battalion. The soldiers cheered as her carriage approached with the insignia of the Hirzg on its side. They moved off the road to allow the carriage to pass, and she waved to them. She also saw riders being sent ahead of her farther up the line, galloping through the fields and meadows alongside the road, and she knew that word of her arrival would be going to the offiziers, and from them to Jan. Brie expected Jan to be among those to greet her when she finally came within sight of the banner of the Hirzg and the starkkapitan, but it was instead Armond cu’Weller, a chevaritt and a’offizier, who strode up to the carriage as the driver pulled the reins. Brie pushed open the door of the carriage and descended the steps before either the Garde Brezno riders with her or cu’Weller could move to help her.

  “Hirzgin,” he said, saluting her. His face was worried and anxious, and he glanced from her to the trio of mounted Garde Brezno gardai with her. Around them, the army had come to a sluggish halt. “Is there a problem? Was your train attacked? The children…?”

  “The children are fine, and should be in Brezno by now,” she answered. “I returned to be with my husband, that’s all, and to stand with him when he meets the Kraljica. If you would tell him that I’ve come, I’d appreciate it. I thought he’d be here…”

  Cu’Weller looked away a moment, his lips pressing together. “I regret, Hirzgin, to have to tell you that the Hirzg, Starkkapitan ca’Damont, and several of the chevarittai had ridden ahead of the army. They are likely in Nessantico already.”

  “Oh.” The vision of Jan standing in flame came back to her, and the mysterious woman with him… She bit at her lower lip, and that gave cu’Weller the chance to hurry in. He opened the door of the carriage for her, as if expecting her to immediately return inside.

  “I’m sorry, Hirzgin.” He glanced again at the mounted gardai with him. “I’ll assign a squad of additional troops to accompany you back to Stag Fall, and give you new horses and driver. The cook can put together provisions for the road…”

  “I won’t be leaving,” she told him, and surprise lifted his eyebrows.

  “Hirzgin, this isn’t a place for you. An army on the march…”

  “My husband isn’t here. That means that I am the authority of the throne of Firenzcia, does it not, A’Offizier?”

  Cu’Keller looked as if he wanted to protest, but shook his head slightly. “Yes, Hirzgin, I suppose so but…”

  “Then my commands supersede yours, and I will continue on with you to Nessantico,” she told him, “until such a time as the Starkkapitan and my husband return. Do you have an issue with that, A’Offizier?”

  “No, Hirzgin. No issue.” The words were an acceptance, but the look on his face belied them.

  She didn’t care. Something told her that she needed to be with Jan, and she would. “Good,” she told him. She opened the door of the carriage, one foot on the step. “Then let us not keep the army waiting,” she told him. “We’ve a long march ahead.”

  Niente

  The waters of Axat betrayed him. He could see little of the Long Path in the mist. Even the events just before them were clouded. There were too many conflicting signs, too many possibilities, too many powers in opposition. Everything was in flux, everyone was in movement. He could no longer see his Long Path at all. It was gone, as if Axat had withdrawn Her favor from him, as if She were angry with him for
his failures.

  He saw only one thing. He saw himself and Atl, facing each other, and lightning flashed between them, and through the mist, he saw Atl fall…

  With an angry shout and a sweep of his arm, Niente sent the scrying bowl flying. The trio of nahualli who had brought him the bowl and the water and were in attendance on him, scrambled to their feet in surprise. “Nahual?”

  “Leave me!” he told them. “Go on! Get out!”

  They scattered, leaving him alone in the tent.

  It’s gone. The future you sought to have has been taken from you. Can you find it again? Is there still time, or has the possibility passed entirely now?

  He didn’t know. The uncertainty was a fire in his stomach, a hammer pounding on his skull.

  He collapsed to the ground, burying his head in his hands. The bowl sat accusingly upside down on the grass before him, orange-tinted water dewing the green blades. The foreign grass, the foreign soil.. .

  He didn’t know how long he sat there when he saw a wavering shadow against the fabric, cast from the great fire in the center of their encampment. “Nahual?” a tentative voice called. “It’s time. The Eye of Axat has risen. Nahual?”

  “I’m coming,” he called out. “Be patient.”

  The shadow receded. Niente pulled himself up. His spell-staff was still on the table. He took it in his hand, feeling the tingling of the spells caught within the whorled grain. Can you do this? Will you do this?

  He went to the flap of the tent, pushed it aside. He stepped out.

  The army had encamped along the main road where it descended a long hill. The tents of the Nahual and the Tecuhtli had been placed on the crown of the hill, surrounded by the tents of the High Warriors and nahualli. Below, Niente could see the glimmering of hundreds of campfires; above, the ribbon of the Star River cleaved the sky, dimmed by the brilliance of Axat’s Eye, staring down at them. The High Warriors and the nahualli stood in a ring around the trampled grasses of the meadow. Near the campfire, blazing in the open space between the Nahual’s tent and that of the Tecuhtli, stood Tecuhtli Citlali, Tototl, and Atl. His son was bare to the waist, his skin glistening. He held his spell-staff in one hand, the end tapping nervously on the ground.

  “You still want this, Atl?” Niente asked him. “You are so certain of your path?”

  Atl shook his head. “Do I want it, Taat? No. I don’t. But I am certain of the path Axat has shown, and I’m confident that the path you want us to take leads to defeat, despite what you believe. You were the one who taught me that even when someone in authority tells you that they’re right, they might still be wrong-and that in order to serve them, you have to persist. You said that was the Nahual’s role to the Tecuhtli, and that of the nahualli to the Nahual.” He took a long, slow breath, tapping his spell-staff on the ground again. “No, I don’t want this. I don’t want to fight you. I hate this. But I don’t see that I have a choice.”

  Citlali stepped forward between the two. “Enough talk,” he said. “We’ve wasted enough time on this already-and the city waits for us. Do what you must, so I know who my Nahual is, so I know which of you is seeing the paths correctly.” He looked from Niente to Atl. “Do it,” he said. “Now!”

  He stepped back, gesturing to Niente and Atl. Niente knew that Citlali wanted them to raise their spell-staffs, wanted the night to blaze suddenly with lightnings and fire, to see one of the two of them crumple to the ground broken, burned, and dead. He could see it in the eagerness of the man’s face, the ways the red eagle’s wings moved on the sides of his shaved skull. The nahualli, the High Warriors, they all shared that same hunger-they stared and leaned forward, their mouths half-open in anticipation.

  No one had seen a Nahual battle a challenger in a generation. They looked forward to the historic scene. Neither Atl nor Niente had moved, though. Niente saw the muscles bunch in his son’s arm, and he knew that Atl would do this. He knew that the vision in the bowl would be kept. At the first lifting of his staff, it would begin-and Atl would die.

  “No!” Niente shouted, and he cast his spell-staff to the ground. “I won’t.”

  “If you are my Nahual, you will,” Citlali roared, as if disappointed.

  “Then I am not the Nahual,” Niente said. “Not any longer. Atl is right. Axat has clouded my vision of the Path. I’m no longer in her favor, and I no longer See true.”

  He bowed to his son, as a nahualli to the Nahual. He stripped the golden bracelet from his forearm. His skin felt cold and naked without it. “I yield,” he said. He knelt, and he proffered the bracelet to Atl. “You are the Techutli’s Nahual now,” he told him. “I am simply a nahualli. Your servant.”

  He could feel the Long Path fading in his mind. You took it from me, Axat. This is Your fault. If he could no longer see, then he would trade his vision for Atl’s. If there was no Long Path, then he would take victory for the Tehuantin.

  He would be satisfied. He wouldn’t live to see the consequences.

  FAILINGS

  Cenzi

  Cenzi had abandoned him, and he could only wonder what he’d done wrong, how he could have misinterpreted things so badly that Cenzi would have allowed this to happen. Nico had spent the time since Sergei had left him on his knees, refusing all food and water. He used the chains binding his hands and legs as flails, to break open again the scabs of the wounds he’d sustained in the battle for the Old Temple, letting the hot blood and the pain take away all thought of the outside world. He accepted the pain; he bathed in it; he gave it up to Cenzi as an offering in hopes that He might speak again to him.

  You’ve taken my lover and stolen my child. You’ve allowed the people who followed me to die horribly. You’ve taken my freedom. How did I offend You? What did I fail to see or do for You? How have I misheard Your message? Tell me. If you wish to punish me, then I give myself to You freely, but tell me why I must be punished. Please help me to understand…

  That was his prayer. That is what he repeated, over and over: as the wind-horns spoke Third Call over the city, as night came, as the stars wheeled past and the moon rose. He prayed, on his knees, lost inside himself and trying again to find the voice of Cenzi somewhere in his despair.

  He couldn’t keep the other thoughts from intruding. His mind drifted, unfocused. He could hear Sergei’s voice, telling him over and over, “It’s Varina who has spared your life, your hands, and your tongue, and thus your gift: a person who doesn’t believe in Cenzi, but who believes in you… It’s Varina who saved your child…” Muffled by the silencer, Nico shouted against that terrible voice, screwing his eyes shut as if he could deny the memory entrance to his mind if he denied himself sight. “I told you about the young woman-I told her that she still had time to change, to find a path that wouldn’t end where I am,” Sergei persisted. “I think that’s what Varina believes of you, Nico. She believes in you, in your gift, and she believes you can do better with it than you’ve done.”

  No! If Varina saved me, it was because she was unwittingly being twisted to Your will. It must be. Tell me that it’s so! Give me Your sign…

  But what surfaced in his mind was instead the image of Liana’s broken and torn body, of the way her eyes stared blindly toward the dome of the Old Temple, and the way her hands clutched her stomach as if trying to cradle the unborn child inside her. He called upon Cenzi to change this horrible act, to return her to life, to take his own life in her place, but she only stared and her chest did not move and the blood thickened and stopped around her as he tried to rouse her, as he held her, as the gardai tore him away as he screamed…

  Cenzi, I know Your gift was given to me-why did You give it to me if not to serve You? What do You ask of me? I will do it. I thought I had done it, but if that’s not true, then show me. Just take this torment from me. Make me understand…

  He thought he felt a hand on his shoulder and he turned, but there was no one there. It must have been the dead turns of the night, when even the great city was at its most quiet. He must
have been kneeling there for turns, with his legs gone dead under him. The still, foul air of the cell shivered and he heard Varina’s voice. “I hate what you’ve preached and what you’ve done in the name of your beliefs. But I don’t hate you, Nico. I will never hate you.”

  “Why not?” he tried to say but his tongue was pressed down by the silencer, and he could only make strangled, unintelligible noises. “Why don’t you hate me? How can you not?”

  The air shivered and he thought he heard a laugh.

  Cenzi? Varina?

  Again, he tried to return to his prayer but his mind wouldn’t allow it. His head was full of voices, but not the one he so desired to hear. He fell backward into memory, lurched forward again into the squalid, filthy present, then fell back again.

  He was eleven, in the house where they lived after Elle took him away from Nessantico, where she stayed when her belly was at its fullest with the child inside, the one she said would be his brother or sister. He could hear Elle groaning and crying in the next room, and he huddled in the common room, scared and frightened by the obvious pain in her voice and praying to Cenzi that she’d be all right. He’d heard many times about women dying in childbirth, and he didn’t know what would happen to him if Elle died-not with his own matarh and vatarh dead, not with Varina and Karl probably dead also for all he knew. Elle was all he had in the world, and so he prayed as hard as he could that she would live. He promised Cenzi that he would devote his life to Him if he would keep Elle alive.

  Elle moaned again, and this time gave a long, shrill scream that was quickly muffled, as if someone had placed a hand or a pillow over Elle’s mouth, and he heard the oste-femme in attendance give a call to her assistants. Nico uncurled himself from the corner and went to the closed door, opening it carefully. He could see Elle propped up in a seated position on the bed, two of the attendants holding her. “Where’s my baby?” she was saying, weeping. “Where… No, be quiet, be quiet! I can’t hear! Where is it?” Nico knew she was talking not only to those in the room, but to the voices in her head.