A Magic of Twilight nc-1

by S L Farrell

  “He can, indeed,” Mahri answered. “And more than you would think. Mahri sent his presence into my cell, somehow, and switched our places. He is the one who is in my body, Ana, sitting in the cell. And I’m trapped in his body.”

  Ana was shaking her head. “No one could do that. There’s no spell that allows it. Cenzi Himself would not allow it. .”

  “I would have said much the same a few days ago. But it’s the truth. I can prove it to you.”

  “How?” His assertion held her while common sense shouted at her to leave, to refuse to believe any of this, to stop listening to what had to be the blathering of a madman.

  “Go to the Bastida. Have the commandant let you see me. . him. . again. Look at the person in the body that was once mine and ask him if it’s true.”

  She was shaking her head already. She started to step away from him, and the pendant that the Archigos had given her swung on its chain. “I gave you a stone shell,” Mahri said. “Have you stopped wearing it?” Ana put her hand over the jeweled broken globe the Archigos had given her. She took a step backward. “It is me, Ana,” Mahri persisted.

  Ana retreated again. He started to pursue her, but she scowled and that seemed to stop his advance. “What do you want of me?” she asked.

  “What are you after?”

  “I want you to come with me. To Mahri’s rooms in Oldtown.”

  “That won’t happen.”

  “You wanted me to teach you how to use the Ilmodo again. I could begin that process. And there are things there that you should see.

  That we both need to see.”

  “You’re not Karl. I don’t believe that.” It can’t be true. I don’t want it to be true. And she knew that it was not only because of the horror of thinking of Karl trapped in Mahri’s body. It was because that meant that the sacrifice of her body to the Kraljiki had been unnecessary.

  “It’s true regardless,” he told her. “But whether you can believe it or not, I can still help you. Let me try, Ana. Please.”

  Denial forced her another step backward. She was at the corner of the building, one hand on the marble seams. She could feel the sunlight at her back. Another step, and she could run. “12 Rue a’Jeunesse,”

  Mahri told her. “I’ll be there. Tonight.”

  “Not tonight,” she told him. “It’s not possible.”

  “Then tomorrow night,” he insisted. “Ana, it’s very important.”

  She didn’t reply. She took another step backward, then turned and hurried away. She didn’t look back to see if he pursued her, not until she was safely in the crowds of the plaza. When she looked, she could not see him at all.

  At her apartment, she let Watha and Sunna help her change into a formal dress robe and comb and arrange her hair. She tried not to think of Mahri or of Karl as they fussed over her, as Beida came in to announce that the Kraljiki’s carriage had arrived, as she was driven again over the Pontica a’Brezi Nippoli to his palace on the Isle A’Kralji, as Renard led her to the private back corridors and into the Kraljiki’s apartment.

  As she went to him and kissed him, as she knew he expected that.

  He had made it clear to her that he wished his lovers to be actively affectionate in private, that he gave no pretense of propriety and expected none. There was a sharp, faint odor lingering around him, and his response was perfunctory, a bare brush of lips. “Is something wrong, Justi?” Ana asked. Francesca, was her immediate suspicion. She’s done something, said something. . She been expecting this-following her meeting with Francesca outside the Reception Hall, she knew that the Vajica would not easily give up her relationship with Justi, and it was not a subject that she could broach with him. Not safely. Francesca’s presence had been in the background of all their conversations since, but Justi had never directly mentioned her.

  But Justi put his fingers on his temples, closing his eyes, and Ana realized that she was smelling the scent of cloves. “You’ve a headache?”

  “A horrible one,” he answered. “It feels as if a smithy were smashing his hammer on the inside of my skull. I can’t seem to rid myself of it, and the healer’s potions have been worse than useless. I’m sorry, Ana.”

  “Don’t be,” she told him. “Here, sit and let me rub your temples. I used to do that with Matarh when she had headaches, and she would do it for me.” He allowed her to lead him to one of the chairs in the apartment, and she stood behind him, massaging his forehead and scalp. She expected him to be tense, but he seemed relaxed and comfortable.

  “You’re not chanting,” he said after a few moments.

  She stopped. “Kraljiki?”

  “Ana, you and the Archigos came every night after the Gschnas to my matarh. You kept her alive when she should have died immediately after ci’Recroix did his despicable act-you, not the Archigos. Matarh told me once that you had the ‘healing touch,’ and we both know what she really meant by that.”

  “Kraljiki, the Divolonte. .” Ana began. Her hands had fallen to her sides, and Justi turned in the chair to look at her.

  “I understand what the Divolonte says. I also know that the Archigos will sometimes look the other way when a teni uses that power.

  There’s no one here but the two of us, Ana. Who would know?”

  She trembled. She looked down at the floor rather than at him. Her stomach burned. The walls of the apartment seemed to loom impossibly close, trapping her. “I can’t. .”

  His eyebrows raised, his already-prominent chin jutted forward even more. “You would refuse me that?”

  You can’t refuse. You have to try. . “No, Justi. . But. . I’m so tired, and I don’t know. .”

  “Try,” he said, the single word burning in her ears. He turned away from her again, leaning back in his chair, obviously expecting her obedience.

  Ana took a breath. She closed her eyes. Cenzi, I pray to You to help me now. Please. I can’t do this without You. I know that. . She spoke the calming, prepatory prayer that U’Teni cu’Dosteau had taught her so long ago, letting the phrases open her mind to the Ilmodo. She could feel the energy pulsing around her after she finished the prayer, but it seemed to linger just outside the touch of her mind, almost mocking her with its proximity. She ignored the gathering feeling of failure, the sense that Cenzi had abandoned her for interest in the Numetodo.

  She allowed herself to find the words of healing, the syllables in words she did not know, and her hands moved as she chanted, following the path the words of release demanded. The Ilmodo writhed and sparked around her, yet continued to elude her grasp. She started the chant again, almost sobbing with frustration. Cenzi, I beg of You. I am sorry for my failures. I am weak, and ask You to forgive me my weakness and make me Your vessel again. .

  The Ilmodo slid around her again, and this time, this time she felt the cold shock of contact. She groaned aloud with relief, snatching at the Ilmodo with her mind before it could dance away once more. The words and her hands shaped the power. She took the Gift and moved her awareness to the man in front of her, she put her hands on his head again and let herself fall into him, searching for the pain in him and ready to release the Ilmodo to erase it. .

  Thank you, Cenzi.

  . . and she felt nothing. There was no pain in Justi’s head. No throbbing of agony in his temples or his neck. She moved through his body, searching. . There was a nagging stiffness in his knees and lower back from years of hard usage in the saddle and on the fencing arena, and a clustering of scar tissue on his side from injuries in one of the Garde Civile’s campaigns in which he’d been wounded. Nothing else.

  The Ilmodo burned in her and she could not hold it any longer, so she released it: to his knees, the spine, the scars. As the energy rushed from her, she gasped and sagged to the floor, exhausted.

  He has no headache. . Cenzi, what have I done?

  She felt more than saw his hands around her, too weak to resist him as he lifted her and took her into the bedroom and laid her down there.

  “Thank
you, Ana,” he said. “I’m feeling much better now. . ”

  Justi ca’Mazzak

  “Well, was I right, Justi?” Francesca asked. “Did the Archigos’ little whore perform as I told you?”

  He thought about lying to her, just to see how she’d respond, but he cupped one of her breasts in his hand and kissed the soft flesh there. “It was as you said,” Justi answered. “She used the Ilmodo against the laws of the Divolonte.” He saw her try to hide a smug, self-congratulatory smile and fail. She’s ruthless but predictable. Those were, in Justi’s opinion, good qualities for a Kraljiki’s wife.

  “It’s as my vatarh said,” Francesca corrected him gently. “That whore and the Archigos use the Ilmodo against the Divolonte. They

  both deserve to be cast out of the Faith. They deserve the fate you should also give the Numetodo who are in the Bastida. You know that’s why she gave herself to you-to save her Numetodo lover. She’s nothing more than a harlot.”

  And why did you give me your body, when you were already married?

  He toyed with the thought of asking her that, just for the enjoyment of watching her reaction. Instead, he pressed his lips together as if in thought. “That may be,” he said, “but I confess that after Ana’s minis-trations I feel better than I have for the last few years. I can understand why Matarh thought she would be a good match for me.”

  As he’d known it would, that banished the smile from her painted

  lips. The tiny lines around the corners of her eyes deepened as her eyes narrowed, and her lips pressed together. Then she seemed to realize the transparency of her emotions and ran her hand down his chest and past his waist. She caressed him as she snuggled close to him in the bed. “I’m the better match for you, Justi,” she said coquettishly. “I could prove that again, if you’d like.”

  “I’m certain you could,” he told her, kissing her. He began to move on top of her, but a bell rang quietly in the outer room and both of them sighed.

  “Don’t go,” she whispered to him, tightening her arms about him.

  “Renard knows not to interrupt me without good reason,” he told her. “This can wait.” Reluctantly, he rolled from bed and donned a dressing gown and slippers. He went into the outer room, closing the door behind him. He sat in the chair nearest the fire and poured himself wine from the flagon on the side table. He took a long sip. “Enter,” he called.

  The door opened and Renard hurried in. “My apologies for the intrusion, Kraljiki,” he said, “but you asked me to come to you if there were news from Firenzcia. One of the message birds came a half-turn ago. This was attached to its leg.” Renard held out a roll of paper to Justi.

  The message was one of the phrases which Justi, Renard, and Sergei had agreed upon. There is bright sun in Firenzcia. “Then there’s no threat from the Hirzg’s army,” Justi said. He found that the news was almost disappointing.

  “Except that there was an additional verification word that commandant ca’Rudka had told them to attach to the message. That word is missing. And the commandant had O’Offizier ce’Kalti write out all the phrases before he left so he could compare them to the writing on any messages we received. According to the Commandant, this is not written in O’Offizier ce’Kalti’s hand.”

  “Perhaps ce’Kalti suffered an accident, or had the bird handler write out the message.”

  “Or perhaps this is not a genuine message, or someone other than ce’Kalti was responsible for it and intends to deceive us.”

  “Ahh. .” Justi leaned back, staring at the parchment again. “Interesting, isn’t it, that A’Teni ca’Cellibrecca strongly urged us not to send the Garde Civile into Firenzcia. He said he was convinced that the Hirzg would not be so foolish as to bring his army within a day’s march of the border.”

  He heard the click of the bedroom door and saw Francesca pad barefoot into the room, clad in another of his gowns.

  “Vatarh knows the Hirzg better than anyone in Nessantico,” she said. “Brezno is his charge, after all, and he and the Hirzg talked often.

  I think that Vatarh’s opinion is well worth attention. Always.” Renard acted as if her presence were entirely expected, responding to her as if she were dressed in a vajica’s finery rather than wrapped in one of Justi’s robes.

  “The a’teni’s opinion is indeed valued, Vajica ca’Cellibrecca,” he answered, though Justi noticed that he kept his gaze on the parchment in Justi’s hand rather than on Francesca. “But the Hirzg is famous for his rash decisions. Look at what he did in the war with Tennshah-without the Hirzg’s provocation, the war might have ended with the Kraljica’s negotiations at Jablunkov.”

  “The Hirzg has cooperated with my vatarh in the past,” Francesca persisted. “He listens to Vatarh, almost as if he were the Archigos.” She placed herself behind Justi’s chair. Her hand rested on his shoulder, possessively.

  “Indeed, Vajica,” Renard said. His gaze found her now. “The Kraljica was very familiar with the relationship between the Hirzg and your vatarh. And its consequences.”

  Justi felt Francesca’s grip tighten angrily on his shoulder. Justi pushed himself up from the chair before she could speak. “I will want to speak with Commandant ca’Rudka in a turn of the glass, Renard. Please make sure that he’s here.” He fingered the scroll once more. “And thank you for bringing this to my attention so quickly.” Renard bowed low to Justi, then gave a far more abbreviated bow to Francesca. He strode quickly to the doors and out.

  “That man is unbearably insolent,” Francesca hissed before the doors had fully closed. “He was the Kraljica’s servant, not yours. You should have rid yourself of him.”

  “He was indispensable to my matarh and, for the moment, to me,”

  Justi told her. “So I would prefer that you avoid making an enemy of Renard, my dear. He would make a very bad enemy, I think; he has been here long enough to know where all the skeletons are buried and who put them there. It would do you well to remember that.”

  He watched her struggle to put away her anger, drinking the rest of the wine. He dropped the parchment to the table. “I pray that your vatarh is right about the Hirzg. If he isn’t, then I will be looking to him to support me against the Hirzg and against his country.”

  “My vatarh would support his marriage-son unconditionally. And his marriage-son would give me what I ask for. Also unconditionally.”

  “You are extraordinarily unsubtle, Francesca.”

  “Am I?” she asked. She smiled. She opened her robe and allowed it to cascade from her shoulders to the floor. Her fingers brushed the fleece between her legs. “Do you really think so?”

  He laughed. “Most charmingly so,” he said, and went to her.

  Sergei ca’Rudka

  The Kraljiki’s decision troubled Sergei, but the man was

  adamant. “By the way, Commandant,” the Kraljiki had said, almost as an afterthought toward the end of their meeting. “I think we need to demonstrate to the Holdings, and to Firenzcia, just how seriously we will take threats to our security. The Numetodo must confess their part in the assassination of Kraljica Marguerite. Those now in the Bastida, even if they’re not directly involved, must be given the appropriate punishment according to the Divolonte to prevent them from misusing the Ilmodo ever again.

  The leaders, beginning with Envoy ci’Vliomani, will be prepared for public execution. Tomorrow.” A’Teni ca’Cellibrecca, seated at the table with Sergei and the Kraljiki, had nodded his agreement, and it was obvious that no argument Sergei could make would change this order.

  Sergei wondered why it was A’Teni ca’Cellibrecca and not the Archigos who had been invited to the meeting. He also knew enough not to ask.

  “I will do whatever the Kraljiki orders,” Sergei had replied, rubbing the polished metal of his nose, “but it’s my duty as commandant to remind the Kraljiki that the Numetodo are no threat to anyone while they are in the Bastida. It would seem far more important that our attention stays on the very real threat of th
e Hirzg.”

  But the Kraljiki, with ca’Cellibrecca nodding vigorously beside him, had insisted that there was no threat from Firenzcia, and it was obvious that the Kraljiki had already made his decision. Sergei’s objections had gone nowhere. Sergei knew it was also the duty of the Commandant of the Garde Kralji, once the decision was made, to carry out the orders without hesitation or second thought.

  He would do so. But he would talk to ci’Vliomani first, so the man knew what he faced and could prepare himself. He strode through the gates of the Bastida, saluted the gardai there, glanced up at the baleful head of the dragon, and went to Capitaine ci’Doulor’s office.

  “Capitaine, I’ve come to meet with the prisoner ci’Vliomani.”

  Sergei stopped in mid-sentence. Capitaine ci’Doulor blanched with Sergei’s statement. His hand clutched at a sheet of paper on his desk, crumpling it and tipping the inkwell set on its corner. The man didn’t seem to notice the mess. “Commandant ca’Rudka,” the man stammered. “You must know. .”

  “Know what, Capitaine?”

  The man’s eyes widened. His mouth gaped like a river carp’s. “I was just writing an urgent message to you. Only a turn ago, while you were at the palais. . the prisoner. . the Numetodo. .”

  Sergei didn’t wait to hear more. He spun on his toes and ran out of the capitaine’s office, with ci’Doulor in pursuit. He went across the courtyard under the glare of the stone dragon and into the tower, taking the winding, ancient stone stairs two at a time. There was a garda at the landing to ci’Vliomani’s cell, but the door was open. There were spots of blood on the garda’s shoulders. Breathing heavily from the climb, Sergei went into the room, spinning around.

  The cell was empty.

  He heard ci’Doulor’s panting entry a few moments later. “Where is he?” Sergei spat angrily, the question seeming to strike ci’Doulor like a fist. The capitaine shook his head as if denying the reality of what Sergei was seeing here. The garda, his face averted, pressed his back to the wall of the landing.