A Magic of Twilight nc-1

by S L Farrell

  “Bring it here.” She didn’t ask what her niece, married to the im-

  petuous Jan ca’Vorl, the Hirzg of Firenzcia, had said; she could see from Renard’s suddenly-clouded face that it was not good news. She unfolded the paper Renard handed her and read the underlined words.

  She shook her head and let the paper drop. “Thirty Numetodo publicly executed in Brezno. . A’Teni ca’Cellibrecca goes too far, and the Hirzg encourages him. Does the Archigos know?” she asked.

  “I suspect the news will have reached him through his own sources,” Renard said. “I will draft a strongly-worded letter to Hirzg ca’Vorl from you. I’m sure the Archigos will be doing the same for A’Teni ca’Cellibrecca.”

  “I’m certain of that,” Marguerite replied. “And I’m sure the families of the slain Numetodo will be very pleased with a strongly worded letter.”

  Ana cu’Seranta

  “No!” U’Teni cu’Dosteau’s thin, oak pointing rod hissed through the air and rapped once on Ana’s moving hands. “Not that way. Pay attention, Ana. You need to create a better pattern. Wider. Larger.”

  Her knuckles ached from the blow, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of stopping. But the instructor’s reprimand sent Ana into momentary silence as she glared at the elderly teni, her voice falter-ing in the midst of the chant she and the other acolytes were reciting.

  The words were not in her own language, but in the teni-speech that could shape the Ilmodo, and were difficult enough to remember without cu’Dosteau’s scoldings. With the stumble, she felt the Ilmodo-the gift of Cenzi, the energy which fed the teni-spells-begin to slip away from her control. She grasped for the Ilmodo with her mind; as she did, odd new words came to her, words that she knew not at all but which somehow felt right for the task, the same words that would come to her when she was with her matarh. The sounds of the words was similar to teni-speech, but the accent was subtly different. She whispered them, not wanting U’Teni cu’Dosteau to hear how she had changed his chant, and let her hands fall back into the spell-pattern.

  Wider. Larger. U’Teni cu’Dosteau treated them like children just learning their letters. In the acolyte’s hall, he acted as if he had a ca’ in front of his name instead of a cu’, even with the acolytes whose family names did begin with ca’, even with Safina ca’Millac, the niece of the Archigos. Cu’Dosteau acted as if he were the Archigos of Concenzia himself. The joke among the acolytes was that cu’Dosteau had enchanted his head so that he could see behind him. He certainly seemed to miss nothing that happened, especially where Ana was concerned.

  He seemed to be always watching her, especially now as they all approached the time when they would either be given their Marques to become a teni, or receive the dreaded Note of Severance.

  Wider. Larger. U’Teni cu’Dosteau was wrong. Ana could sense it.

  She could nearly see the Ilmodo snaking around her body, and she knew that if instead she tightened the hand-pattern, if she made it smaller rather than larger, she could shape the Ilmodo more carefully.

  The task was simple enough: U’Teni cu’Dosteau had brought the class down to the basement of the Archigos’ Temple, where several e’teni of the temple had set a huge coal fire ablaze in the furnace. The class was to use the Ilmodo to smother it-it was a task that they might have to perform if they were eventually assigned to be one of the many fire-teni, who had more than once saved the city from burning down, especially in the crowded Oldtown district. The class finished their chant just as Ana caught up with them, their final gestures causing the flames to shudder and dim, although the coals still gleamed mockingly.

  Ana finished her spell a breath afterward, her hands moving in a quick, subtle gesture that changed the outline of the Ilmodo, focusing it.

  Air rushed away from the remaining blue flames and they went out with an audible whoomp, the noise so loud that all of them took an involuntary step back as a hot breeze laden with the smell of coal ash moved past them and fluttered the green robes of the e’teni. Cu’Dosteau alone didn’t seem to react. He remained standing near Ana, the tip of his pointing rod on the stone-flagged floor and his hands cupped over the handle, his teni-robes looking more brown than green in the sudden dimness of the room. He stared at Ana with dark, speculative eyes from under the hair-rimmed cave of his brow. She lowered her head so that she didn’t have to meet his gaze. The weariness that always came from using the Ilmodo made her want to do nothing more than sink to the floor entirely, especially after her use of it this morning with her matarh.

  A few of the acolytes already had done so, drained by their effort.

  Using the Ilmodo always came with a cost. Cenzi made the teni pay for His gift. It was the first lesson they had all learned, three years ago now.

  “This is why most of you will not receive a Marque from the Archigos,” cu’Dosteau commented as the e’teni began to chant and the coals reignited-it wouldn’t do for the Archigos to be cold in his dressing chambers. In the renewed flames, cu’Dosteau’s shadow shuddered on the wall nearest Ana. “A single experienced fire-teni would have been able to douse those flames alone-a necessary skill, or half the houses in the city might have burned to the foundations by now. Yet it took the whole group of you, and you very nearly didn’t accomplish it. You had ample time to review the proper patterns and the correct chant-words, and yet several of you were stumbling over them.” He tapped a long forefinger to his right ear. “I listen, and I see. And I’m not impressed today. Some of you-” He hesitated, and Ana glanced up to find him looking at her before his gaze swept over the rest of the acolytes. “-seem to feel that the Ilmodo will come to you no matter how you wave your hands about. I assure you that would be a mistake.

  Vajica cu’Seranta, might you agree with that statement?”

  Ana’s head came up. She heard Safina ca’Millac snicker, then go abruptly silent as cu’Dosteau cast her a baleful glance. “Yes, U’Teni,”

  Ana answered quickly. “I’m sure you’re right.”

  Cu’Dosteau sniffed, as if amused. “That’s enough for today,” he told them. “We’re already late for the Archigos’ service. I know you’re all tired from using the Ilmodo, even as poorly as you did, but see if you can manage to stay awake until after the Admonition. Then go home and sleep. Tomorrow I expect to see evidence that you have actual brains inside those skulls, as unlikely as that appears at the moment.”

  Dhosti ca’Millac

  There were few people other than U’Teni cu’Dosteau’s class in the main nave of the temple: two or three of the ca’-and-cu’ families in their fashionable bashtas and tashtas, several dozen ce’, ci’, or unranked citizens hanging farther back in the shadows of the vaulted interior. Archigos Dhosti ca’Millac climbed the small set of stairs placed judiciously behind the High Lectern that stood in front of the quire; even when he stood on the top step, his balding head-adorned with a gold circlet with a riven globe-barely topped the wooden structure.

  Those below him saw mostly the hairless summit of his head.

  Dhosti had once been a lowly street performer, a dwarf gymnast in a traveling circus in the desert wastes in southern Namarro, with no denotation of status before his name at all. But a young teni happened to attend one of the traveling circus’ performances and had seen in the misshapen young man’s startling performances of strength and agility the fact that Dhosti was tapping, unconsciously and poorly, the power that those of Concenzia called “Ilmodo,” the unseen energy the teni shaped through their deep faith and ritualized chants. Dhosti Millac, as he was known then, was brought to the nearest temple and converted to the Faith-easy in the Holdings, where Concenzia was the state religion, and anyone who wished to become cu’ or ca’ must be one of the Faithful. The promise glimpsed in Dhosti by that teni-none other than U’Teni cu’Dosteau himself, then a humble e’teni-was found to be greater than anyone expected. Over the course of several decades, the dwarf had risen through the ranks from e’teni to his installation as Archigos eighteen years a
go.

  Eighteen years as Archigos. Dhosti felt each of those years tenfold.

  Not too long from now, someone else would take the globe of Cenzi from his dead hands and wear the green-and-white robes. Those around Dhosti were constantly reminding him of his mortality, reminding him that he had yet to designate someone to be the next Archigos, reminding him that far too many of the a’teni-those teni just under Dhosti, who controlled the largest cities of the Holdings-didn’t agree with Dhosti’s views and found him “soft.” They wanted the Concenzia Faith to wield its power and strength, they felt that the proper response to heretical statements was not discussion and negotiation, but the measures outlined in the harsh Commandments of the Divolonte.

  Dhosti sighed, as much from the exertion of climbing the steps as from his thoughts.

  He looked over the worn, polished oak of the High Lectern toward the small congregation gathered below him. He nodded faintly to U’Teni cu’Dosteau and also to his niece Safina, there in the midst of the acolytes, and began his Admonition.

  “We of Concenzia know that the Toustour is the word of Cenzi, given to us so that we would understand Him. To guide us along the right path, our predecessors within the Faith created a companion to the scrolls of the Toustour, the Divolonte, and for long years, they have both served us. But we should always remember that while the Toustour was inspired by Vucta through Her son Cenzi, and while the Divolonte in turn was inspired by the Toustour, the Divolonte comes from our minds: the minds of frail people, not from Vucta or Cenzi or even the Moitidi who in turn created us. Just as the Moitidi which came from Cenzi were imperfect, so too are we. Even more so. In fact, we of the Faith must constantly look to the Divolonte we have made, and change it in response to the world in which we find ourselves. .”

  It was an old Admonition, one that Dhosti had proclaimed so often that it required no thought on his part, and-he could see from the nodding heads before him-that those who came to the temple no longer even heard it when he spoke. He saw U’Teni cu’Dosteau put his hand over his mouth to cover a small, injudicious yawn.

  You bore even yourself, old man. Dhosti wondered whether this was what Cenzi had intended for him: a long, slow, and sleepy decline from the vigor of his younger years. He wondered if this was why he’d fought so hard to become Archigos.

  Half a turn of the glass later, he ended the Admonition and gave Cenzi’s Blessing to the congregation. They left the temple gratefully, the acolytes especially half-running from before the High Lectern as soon as they were dismissed. Dhosti moved slowly across the quire toward the vestry, his head bent down because of his curved spine. Kenne, his secretary and an o’teni despite his relative youth, took Dhosti’s arm, helping him from the dais. “Archigos,” Kenne whispered urgently. “There is news.”

  Dhosti raised bristling white eyebrows as he regarded Kenne’s somber face. “Not good news, then. The Kraljica?”

  “The Kraljica is fine. The news comes from Brezno.”

  “Ah. What has A’Teni ca’Cellibrecca done?”

  Dhosti could see from Kenne’s plain, round face that the guess had hit close to the mark. But Kenne’s next words nearly sent him stagger-ing to the carpeted tiles. “A’Teni ca’Cellibrecca and Hirzg ca’Vorl have captured and executed several Numetodo in Brezno Square.”

  “He dares. .” Dhosti sputtered. The teni attendants at the vestry entrance looked at him quizzically, and he waved them away. They scattered as Kenne helped Dhosti into the vestry and closed the door.

  Dhosti sat in the nearest chair and looked up at Kenne. His heart pounded against the cage of his ribs, and his breath was tight. His weariness had vanished, and he felt a burning in his stomach as if he’d just taken a glass of firebrew. “Tell me,” he said to Kenne. “Tell me what you know.”

  Kenne nodded. “The report is from O’Teni ci’Narsa, who is the Hirzgin’s personal teni. He says that A’Teni ca’Cellibrecca had confessions taken from the captives in the Bastida Brezno first. Evidently many of the Numetodo, when they were paraded out, could barely walk. They were displayed to the crowds while the charges were read and sentences given. At least five of the prisoners were drawn before their heads were taken. The crowd was much amused, according to ci’Narsa.” The teni swallowed hard; Dhosti could see him imagining the scene. “The bodies were gibbeted on the square as a warning to any other Numetodo in the city, and the Hirzg and A’Teni ca’Cellibrecca both made speeches to the crowds. There were at least thirty killed, from the report that came here.”

  He could see the bodies. In their black iron cages, their skeletal faces stared at him. “I did this,” Dhosti said quietly.

  “Archigos?”

  “I did this,” Dhosti repeated. “A’Teni ca’Cellibrecca has made no secret that he opposes my feelings toward the Numetodo, but now he goes beyond words to actions. It is my fault: I have been asleep here. If I were a stronger Archigos, he would not have dared.”

  “You can’t blame yourself for A’Teni ca’Cellibrecca’s actions, Archigos. Only he is responsible.”

  Dhosti nodded, wanting to believe Kenne, and knowing he could not. He could see the dead in Brezno Square, and all of them seemed to be looking directly at him. My fault. .

  This was Cenzi’s warning. This was Cenzi telling him that he had been drifting, that if he continued to drift, far worse than this would happen.

  My fault. .

  He promised Cenzi that the sign would not be forgotten. He began to breathe again, but the blaze inside him remained. “Draft a letter to ca’Cellibrecca,” he told Kenne. “Make it clear to him that I am not pleased by this. And tell him that I expect him to come to Nessantico for the Kraljica’s Jubilee, and that we will talk further then.”

  “I will do that,” Kenne answered. “Here, let me help you with your robes, and I will send for one of the e’teni to accompany you to your apartments. You can rest there until I bring you the draft.”

  “No,” Dhosti told him. “We will work on this together. In my office.

  I’ve been resting too long, Kenne. It’s time to wake up once more.”

  Harbingers

  Ana cu’Seranta

  Because it was the month of the Kraljica’s Jubilee, the fiftieth anniversary of her rule, the sky was a perfection of deepest azure, decorated tastefully with pillows of white clouds. Because it was the month of the Kraljica’s Jubilee, spring deigned to arrive a few weeks early: flowers bloomed in a determined barrage of unadulterated hues from the boxes below nearly every window and in the dozens of great and small public gardens of Nessantico. Because it was the month of the Kraljica’s Jubilee, the sun, which until the last week had been a pale apparition easily overcome by the cold winds and snow off the Strettosei, girded its celestial loins and beamed renewed warmth down on the city. Because it was the month of the Kraljica’s Jubilee, the days were full of ceremonies and rituals, all of which were occasions for those whose family names were prefaced with a ca’ or cu’ to attend and be seen, to mingle and gossip and at least pretend that they were universally joyous at this milestone in the current Kraljica’s long reign over the Holdings.

  Because it was the month of the Kraljica’s Jubilee, nothing would be allowed to mar the perfection.

  Ana cu’Seranta made certain that she wore yellow for her afternoon’s appointment at the temple, since the Kraljica had appointed the trumpet flower with its sun-tinted petals as the official flower of the celebration, and one never knew when the Kraljica might deign to take her carriage for a turn around the Avi a’Parete. Besides, yellow enhanced the golden-brown tones of her skin and contrasted nicely with the nightfall black of her hair. When the Kraljica had declared the trumpet flower as her symbol, there’d been an immediate rush on the last harvest’s stock of sapnuts, from which the richest golden dyes were derived. Sapnut-dyed cloth had become difficult to find and expensive to buy, but when the invitation had come from the Archigos’ own office requesting Ana to view the Archigos’ afternoon blessing, Ana’s vatar
h had managed to find a small bolt at Oldtown Market.

  “No, Vatarh, you don’t need to do that.”

  “But it’s what I want, Ana,” he’d said to her. “You’re going to see the Archigos, and I want you to look beautiful.”

  He’d reached out to her then, and she’d turned quickly away. She kept her face averted until he dropped his hand back to his side. When he returned that afternoon, he’d given the bolt to the upstairs servant Sala, not to Ana.

  He’d left the house again without another word.

  The hue of the cloth was perhaps more subdued than the optimum, the dye diluted or mixed with less expensive dyes, but the shade was acceptable. Ana had fashioned a robelike tashta from the cloth, the folds drawn tight just under her bosom and then falling free to the sandals on her feet, a Magyarian fashion that had been adopted for the last several years in Nessantico.

  “They’re here, Vajica Ana. They’ve sent an open carriage for you.”

  Tari, one of the two remaining lower-floor servants, was bowing at the door to Ana’s dressing room. “It’s being driven by a teni,” she added.

  Ana glanced a final time at the mirror, waving off Sala, who was wield-ing a brush as she arranged Ana’s hair and tied it with ribbons.

  “Tell them I’ll be down directly,” Ana told Tari, who inclined her head once more. They could hear her footsteps on the stairs.

  “An open carriage,” Sala said quietly. Sala had been Ana’s wet nurse, and had stayed on in the family’s employ to become an upper-floor servant. She still seemed to consider Ana her special charge, and had stayed on even as the family’s fortunes had declined and the staff that had formerly kept the house was reduced. “The Archigos wants you to be seen. As you should be.”