A Magic of Twilight nc-1

by S L Farrell

  “No!” Ca’Staunton’s shout pushed Jan’s spine against his chair.

  “You can’t do this!” the man bellowed. “You-your vatarh always said to me that you were reckless and a fool.” With one motion, he tossed the scroll aside and drew his sword-Jan heard the hiss of blade against scabbard, like a shrill wind through fir branches-and charged toward Jan.

  He made only a single step. Cu’Linnett moved at the same time,drawing his sword and pivoting. The a’offizier’s blade slashed across ca’Staunton’s ample stomach, the starkkapitan’s rush burying the

  edge deeply in his abdomen. Ca’Staunton doubled over at the point of impact, his eyes wide, and he grunted like an animal. Cu’Linnett completed his turn, ripping out his sword. Blood spattered in a gory, diagonal line across the tent fabric very near Allesandra, who stared, her mouth open and a painted soldier clutched in her hand. Ca’Staunton remained standing for a breath, hunched over, his sword still pointed threateningly at Jan.

  The sword dropped from the man’s hand. A surge of red poured from his mouth.

  He fell.

  Jan was still seated in his chair, his hands folded in his lap. Markell’s own sword was drawn, the double-edged steel gleaming protectively in front of Jan. Markell sheathed the blade as Jan slowly rose and came around to the blood-spattered front of the field desk. Ca’Staunton’s body twitched, his eyes wide and frightened, the blood still flowing from his mouth and nostrils as his hands tried to stuff pink loops back into the gaping wound. Cu’Linnett stood above him, his sword tip at ca’Staunton’s neck, his foot on the starkkapitan’s chest. “My Hirzg?” he asked. “If I may? The man suffers.”

  Jan didn’t answer at first. “Allesandra?” he asked, looking back at his daughter. She stared at the blood, but now her head turned to him.

  Her face was serious and pale.

  “I’m fine, Vatarh,” she said. She gulped audibly before speaking again. “He was a bad starkkapitan.”

  “Yes, he was,” Jan told her. He nodded to cu’Linnett. The man’s sword thrust and ca’Staunton went still. Jan bent down beside the body and tore ca’Staunton’s insignia of rank from his uniform blouse, heed-less of the blood that stained his hand. He spat on ca’Staunton’s body as he hefted the silver-and-brass weight of the starkkapitan’s eagle in his palm. Markell nodded once behind the desk, as if he guessed at Jan’s thoughts. Allesandra watched him from the rug. He held out the insignia toward cu’Linnett.

  “Starkkapitan ca’Linnett,” and the doubled change in title and name brought the man’s head up sharply. “I thank you for your defense of your Hirzg. And I extend my congratulations on your victory today- may you have many more as starkkapitan. You have demonstrated that you are a fine example of the chevarittai of Firenzcia. As reward, I name you Comte of the town of Ville Colhelm. Direct your offiziers to take the army across the Clario, and secure your town; I will cross the Clario myself this evening and will meet you there so we can discuss our future strategy.”

  Jan extended his hand with the insignia toward the man, who finally sheathed his sword and took it. “You may leave us, Starkkapitan,”

  Jan told him as the man stared at the eagle in his hand. “You’ve much more to do before the end of this day.” Ca’Linnett glanced at the body of ca’Staunton. “You should look at him,” Jan said. “Look well. Memo-rize what you see.”

  “My Hirzg?”

  “You may think that you did this, but you didn’t. This was ca’Staunton’s fate, no matter whose hand held the sword. This is what happens to those who can’t meet my expectations, Starkkapitan. I trust you don’t think me reckless and foolish.”

  Ca’Linnett swallowed visibly again. He saluted. “Good,” Jan told him. “I’m glad we understand each other. Until this evening, then, Starkkapitan. Oh, and if you would send someone in to remove the carcass. .”

  Another salute, and ca’Linnett fled. Jan went to Allesandra and gathered her in his arms. Together, they looked down at the body. “Your desk is ruined, Vatarh,” Allesandra said. Splashes of brown-red crusted the surface of Great-Vatarh Jan’s painted face and dripped thickly from the desk front.

  “It will clean up,” he told her.

  Ana cu’Seranta

  Ana cried silently in the darkness, her face to the wall. At least she hoped she was silent. She didn’t know where Mahri was-he’d left the apartment for the streets a few turns before and not returned, but Karl was curled up in a nest of blankets on the other side of the room, and she didn’t want to wake him.

  Not silent enough. . She realized she could no longer hear Karl’s soft snoring even as she heard his footsteps behind her, then felt the movement of the straw-stuffed mattress on which she lay. “Ana. .”

  Karl’s hand touched her shoulder with his whisper. “I’m sorry. For everything that’s happened to you.”

  Ana wiped furtively at her eyes, grateful for the gloom. She did not trust herself to speak. She remained huddled there, silent, as if she could stopper up her grief for the past and her fears for her future by sheer force of will. She heard him speak a spell-word and a soft light blossomed, no more than a candle’s worth. She could see her shadow on the wall in its steady light.

  “I thought I heard you,” Karl said. “I thought. .” She felt him shift his weight. The hand moved from her shoulder to stroke her hair. “Do you want me to leave you alone?”

  She shook her head. The light vanished, and she felt the warmth of him along her back as he lay down next to her. “You should know that your coming to me in the Bastida was what kept me alive and sane,” he said. “I was afraid that I was going to die there, afraid that I’d never see you or Nessantico or the Isle of Paeti again. Never smell the ocean or feel a soft shower from a passing cloud while the sun still was shining on the meadow. Never feel the power of the Scath Cumhacht in me again. .” He stopped. His hand slid down her arm until he found her hand. He laced his fingers in hers. “But I could always remember you, long after you left. Ana, I don’t know what you did to keep me alive and safe, and I don’t care. It doesn’t matter. I will always be in your debt.”

  She could not hold back the sobs anymore. The emotions rose within her, racking her until her shoulders heaved. His fingers tightened around hers. After a moment, she returned the pressure, and that calmed her somewhat. Karl released her hand to put his arms around her and cradle her into himself. He let her cry, saying nothing, just letting the grief and shame flow from her. His head snuggled into her neck; she felt his lips against her there, kissing her once softly.

  “You’re safe for now,” he whispered. “That’s all that matters.”

  She shook her head. “No,” she told him. “The Archigos. .

  Kenne. .” She inhaled, the sound breaking. “What have I done to my matarh? What will happen to her now? It would be better if I’d died with the Archigos.”

  “No,” he said fiercely into her ear. “You can’t say that. I won’t let you.”

  She turned in his arms so that she faced him. He was a shadow against the darker background of the room. “I lay with him,” she said, the confession rushing out unbidden. “With the Kraljiki. That was the bargain I made for you, Karl. Even the Archigos pushed me toward the Kraljiki, saying he thought it’s what I should do. The Kraljiki said he would keep you safe if I’d be his lover. He said that. .” She had to stop.

  “He said that he might marry me, said that the Archigos’ favorite would make a good match.” She laughed once, bitterly. Karl said nothing. His hands had stopped moving. “That wasn’t really a lie, I suppose. Not really, now that ca’Cellibrecca will be the Archigos.”

  “Francesca. .” The word was a breath and a knife.

  “Yes. Francesca.”

  His hand found her cheek. “He used you, Ana. He and Francesca both. They played you and used you until they got what they wanted.”

  “I was using him in return,” she answered. “That makes me no better.” She took a breath, and it was empty of the sadness. “I
’d like you to go,” she said to him. “Leave me alone.”

  “Ana. .” He put his arm around her, started to draw her to him.

  She wanted to let it happen. She wanted to lose her thoughts in heat and his taste and smell, but afterward. . She didn’t know what either one of them would feel afterward, and she couldn’t face another loss.

  She put her hand on his chest, pushing him back.

  “No,” she said, and the single word stopped him. For a breath, the tableau held. She could feel his breath so close to her lips before he rolled away from her and off the bed. In the darkness, she heard him walk across the room to the pile of blankets that served as his own bed.

  She forced herself not to cry again. She prayed to Cenzi instead, and wondered if He could hear her, or if He would listen.

  When Ana awoke the next morning, Mahri had returned. He was seated near the hearth, and a pot boiled on the crane over the fire. The fragrant, sharp smell of mint filled the room. Karl snored in his corner.

  “Tea?” Mahri asked. Ana nodded, then winced as he reached out and swiveled the crane away from the fire; the crane had to be burning hot to the touch, but Mahri didn’t seem to react to the heat.

  He plucked the pot from the crane and poured liquid into two cracked-lipped mugs, stirring a dollop of honey from a jar into each.

  Ana padded over to him, still wrapped in her blanket, and he handed her one of the mugs. The man’s terrible, scarred face regarded her, his remaining eye staring. She dropped her gaze away quickly, blowing at the steaming liquid and taking a sip. The sweetness burned its way down her throat and the heat of the mug made her put it down on the edge of the table where Mahri sat, near the room’s single window. “It’s good,” she said. “Thank you.”

  “There are rumors all over the city,” Mahri said as if he hadn’t heard her. His own mug sat untouched on the rickety, scratched tabletop.

  The shutters of the window were open, and she could hear people moving on the street outside and see the early morning light. First Call sounded, the wind-horns of Temple Park loudest of them. Ana closed her eyes and went to one knee, reciting the First Call prayers silently to herself, her lips moving with the familiar, comforting words.

  “You believe? Still? After all this?”

  Mahri’s question brought her head up again. Ana nodded as she rose. “I do believe,” she told him. “Again, after I thought I’d lost belief.

  And you, Mahri? Do you pray to anyone, or do you believe in no gods at all like Karl?”

  “I believe that there are many ways to use the X’in Ka, which you call the Ilmodo. For us, like you, we call on our gods-but it would seem that the Numetodo have shown both of us another way.” He might have smiled; with the disfigured face, it was difficult to tell. “Even my people have things to learn, things you or the Numetodo can teach us.

  But I do believe, yes. Where I come from, we worship Axat, who lives in the moon, and Sakal, whose home is the sun. Your Cenzi we don’t know at all.”

  “Where is home?”

  “Far from here in the West,” he answered. “But not so far that we haven’t heard of Nessantico, though we’ve so far managed to avoid her armies. But that day will come.”

  “Why are you here?”

  He did smile then. And didn’t answer. He took a sip of his tea.

  “The city is like a nervous dog ready to bite anyone who approaches,” he said finally. “First the Kraljica’s assassination, then the Archigos dead under suspicious circumstances. Now there is talk that Firenzcia’s army is on the march-the Kraljiki has expanded commandant ca’Rudka’s duties to include the Garde Civile as well as the Garde Kralji, and the Commandant has called for all able-bodied men to enlist in the Garde Civile. Some say that conscription squads will be roaming through the city soon. The Kraljiki sent out riders to the north, south, and west last night, supposedly to summon the nearest Garde Civile garrisons to come here. There’s been a request to the local farmers for hay and any wheat stores they may have. Archigos Orlandi has sent additional worker-teni to the smithies and forges.”

  Mahri glanced over at Karl. “The Numetodo still in the Bastida have been executed,” he continued. “Their bodies-hands cut off and tongues removed-are hanging this morning from the Pontica Kralji.

  But there weren’t nearly as many of them in their cells as there were supposed to be. Most of the Numetodo escaped somehow last night via some dark magic.”

  Even as she recoiled from the news, she noticed the weariness in Mahri’s body: the way he propped his body on the table, the heaviness of the lid over his good eye. “That was your doing, the escapes?”

  Again, he didn’t answer directly. He inclined his head toward the sleeping Karl. “He will need support when he hears of this,” he said.

  “Not all those in the Bastida escaped, and those were his comrades who were murdered.”

  “Why are you here?” she persisted. “Whose side are you on?”

  “I’m not on any side.” Mahri drained his still-steaming mug of tea.

  She touched her own mug; it was still too hot to hold comfortably. “I need to sleep now. It’s been a long, tiring night. Have some more tea if you like. There’s bread and cheese in the cupboard. If you’ll excuse me. .” He rose from the table.

  “What if someone comes?” she asked him. “What should I do?”

  “No one will come,” he told her. “And as long as you stay here, you’re safe, at least for this day. If you go out on the street. .” The folds of his cloak shifted as his shoulders rose and fell. “Then I can’t say. That would be in the hands of your Cenzi.”

  With that, he shuffled off to the far corner of the room, pulled his cloak tighter around himself, and sat. She could hear his breathing slowing and becoming louder almost immediately.

  She sat in the chair and sipped her tea, looking out at the Rue a’Jeunesse and wondering what she would say to Karl when he woke.

  Sergei ca’Rudka

  A double hand of Numetodo bodies swung on their gibbets on the lampposts of the Pontica Kralji. There should have been two double hands, enough to decorate the Pontica Mordei as well. That those bodies were missing both troubled and pleased Sergei.

  It pleased him. . because he was convinced that the Numetodo had nothing to do with the death of the Kraljica or the heretical treason of the Archigos and his staff. He had personally supervised the interrogations of the Numetodo who had remained in the Bastida and who were now hanging above him for the crows. He had listened to and watched enough men under torture to see and hear the difference between extracted truth and lying admissions screamed in hopes of stopping the torment. All of the Numetodo had eventually “confessed” before their execution; all of them, Sergei was certain, had only said what they hoped their captors had wanted to hear-their stories didn’t connect, didn’t make sense, didn’t substantiate each other. He was glad that ci’Vliomani had escaped that torment and that humiliation, glad that so many others had escaped it as well. It didn’t please him to see so much unnecessary death.

  But the escapes troubled him. . because it was magic that had been at work in the Bastida last night: the fog that had risen suddenly and thick from the A’Sele and wrapped around the Bastida;

  the gardai rendered unconscious; the disappearance of many of the prisoners before several teni arrived from the Archigos’ Temple and dispersed the false mist with their own spells. By then, it had been too late, but he knew that if Kraljiki Justi or Archigos Orlandi decided that they needed a high-level scapegoat, they might look at Sergei. Had the Numetodo all escaped, that certainly would have been the case.

  Yes, the escapes troubled him. . because Sergei suspected that truth lay elsewhere, and that if he dared to speak his own suspicions, his would be the next body hanging on the Pontica after days of torture in the Bastida.

  “Commandant?”

  The query brought him out of his reverie. His boots squelched in the mud of the riverbank as he turned. “Yes, O’Offizier
ce’Ulcai?”

  The man handed ca’Rudka a sealed letter. His gaze flicked past ca’Rudka to the bodies swaying above them on the Pontica, then back.

  “Your aide said to give this to you immediately.”

  “Thank you,” Sergei said. He examined the seal, then tucked his finger underneath the flap to break the red wax from the thick paper.

  He unfolded the letter and read it quickly.

  Commandant-I have investigated the matter you requested me to look into. I apologize for the length of time it has taken me to reply, but my queries required both more travel and correspondence than I expected. Here are the facts, as I know them: The artist Edouard ci’Recroix was born here in Il Trebbio in a village on the River Loi, near our border with Sforzia and Firenzcia. There is no evidence that he had Numetodo tendencies; in fact, in his youth he spent two years as a teni-apprentice under A’Teni ca’Sevini of Chivasso, though he did not receive his Marque. Still, by all appearances he was a devout member of Concenzia. His early paintings, before his time as teni-apprentice, are unremarkable; I have viewed several of them, and there is little indication of his later skill.

  But after his release from his studies by the a’teni, his reputation (and his skills, evidently) began to rise, and in that time he obtained commissions in several of the cities within the Holdings. The fact that he had teni-training undoubtedly led to the persistent rumors that he tapped the Ilmodo to gain the vivid likenesses in his later painting.

  A shame no one realized how true that was.

  One oddity-which I admit I would not have noticed had you not alerted me to look for any strange connections-is that most of the subjects of his portraits, especially those considered to be his mas-terworks, are dead. At least three of them died within a few days of ci’Recroix’s delivery of the finished painting, at which time ci’Recroix was generally gone from the city, not that any suspicion was ever