Citadel of the Sky (Thrones of the Firstborn Book 1)

by Chrysoula Tzavelas

  Chapter 10

  A Measure of Night

  Jerya and Lisette went to the Justiciar’s Court again the next morning, and Tiana thought she’d start the day on a positive note by keeping her sister company. The reception was in the evening, so she could easily spare the morning. This time, however, she brought her long-neglected basket of lace crochet with her.

  The Hall was full this morning, with a crowd of finely dressed people brightening the audience. More than once, as she let her gaze rove the Hall, she met the stare of someone watching the Royal Box. She smiled the first time it happened, out of habit, but then she realized why they looked away. Her smile took on a feral edge she couldn’t control.

  Jerya said, “What a frightening expression,” and Tiana wilted. Jerya patted her hand. “It’s all right.”

  The clerk went to the Justiciar’s table and passed a message to Lord Warrane. He read it, covered his eyes and then glanced at the box, meeting Tiana’s stare. This time, he smiled. Then he scribbled something and passed the note back.

  After the third case, a request for arbitration on who was responsible for fixing a washed out bridge, Jerya and Lisette consulted. Then, Jerya announced her approval of the decision, her voice firm. The Justiciars muttered, except for Lord Warrane and Lord Donatien, who both frowned at the Royal Box.

  The audience, however, murmured and moved in response to Jerya’s approval. A bearded man called to the favored plaintiff, “Bad luck, getting the Blood’s attention.”

  Tiana transferred her gaze from Jerya to the audience, and the neighbors of the unwise speaker moved several steps away from him. It was funny, she told herself, and tried to bring her best glare to the surface. The monsters are back. And the murmuring stilled. Hysterical laughter bubbled to the surface, and she giggled before she managed to calm herself. She was the perfect patron princess, everything Jerya would be proud of.

  As the morning wore on, she amused herself by trying to guess what each group or individual standing in line was there for. The servants were almost always dressed in some kind of livery, with the absent-minded attentiveness she’d come to recognize. The peasants were far more aware of their position in line. Some of them huddled close together, while others were rivals and shared a case, but no amiability. The scholars occupied a third category of petitioner; their clothing varied wildly, but they almost always had documents, or even portfolios, with them.

  An example of the third set was next in line. There were two men and a woman. The woman was wearing the sigil and stole of an astrologer, and she held a case. One of the men was dressed like a well-to-do merchant, the kind who would ordinarily have a servant stand in line for him. He was holding a chain with a number of small clocks attached to it.

  The other, bearded, was dressed in the simple homespun robes of a monk. Tiana leaned forward, and around his neck she could see the wooden torc of the Firstborn Keldera, plowman’s patron, with a blue and yellow bead on each side. She couldn’t remember what the colors of the Keldaran beads signified, but she knew that only two meant he wasn’t highly placed in Keldaran hierarchy.

  The center of Keldaran power was far to the east, at Lachan and Lake Morning. The priests appeared at Sangwys to welcome the summer and at Nomenflor, Keldera’s high holy day, but otherwise, she had little experience with them. She wondered if they’d come to report on the harvest.

  The trio moved to the white line. The merchant introduced himself. “I am Gregori Yale. I make fine clocks. This is Mistress Vanelle Petring, a customer of mine. Several years ago, she expressed a complaint about my craftsmanship and, in doing so, brought something very disturbing to my attention. She said that over the past seven years or so, my attention to detail had slipped and that my clocks were no longer as precise as they used to be. I take pride in my work, so I investigated.”

  Tiana glanced at the Justiciar’s table and saw members frowning, several shifting impatiently. Perhaps this wasn’t a scholarly report, as she’d thought. Perhaps this was some sort of dispute they needed settled instead.

  “Her specific complaint was that my clocks were losing time much faster than they used to. She produced records of certain astrological events which happen reliably, at the same time, on the same day, every year. She brings those with her today.”

  He gestured at the woman and her case. “I checked my mathematics and they were sound. The materials were not degrading more quickly. We could find nothing that would account for it.

  “Eventually, I invited her to my shop, which has hundreds of clocks of my own and others’ craftsmanship. There we observed and timed the display of a certain stellar phenomenon known as the Winterdark Companion. Its passage, two days before Pyrvalis, is very predictable.”

  The man paused and took a deep breath. “It was late. By every clock, by every calculation of dusk and dawn, it was late.” He looked around, at dozens of puzzled faces, and nodded. “I was confused. I turned to another correspondent of mine, Brother Jan Black, of the Keldaran Canticlars.

  “Once I explained what concerned us, he was able to corroborate our findings. But what we concluded was so… disturbing that we decided to spend several years seeking opinions from others before we decided that it was worth reporting to the Court.”

  Lord Aubin, eldest of the Council, said, “What were your conclusions, Master Yale? That the astrologer’s art is less precise than previously thought?’

  Gregori Yale shook his head and glanced at his companions. The monk raised his voice. “My Lords, My Ladies, honored Justiciars, today will be approximately ten minutes shorter than this day three years ago. The night will be that much longer.” He paused and added, “That is what I tracked, you see. The dawn. It comes later and the sun sets earlier, each year. Once, this was not so.”

  Jerya spoke abruptly, “Do you know when this changed?”

  The astrologer worried her lip with her teeth and stepped closer to her companions. “We are not sure, Your Highness. The change seems to have… accelerated in the past few years. I first began noticing irregularities a decade ago. At first, it was a change of less than a minute from year to year.” When Mistress Vanelle fell silent, the Hall was so quiet nobody seemed to be breathing. Then it exploded with the clamor of voices.

  Jerya looked at Lisette and then across the crowd, chewing on a finger. Lisette was doing math on her ledger. Tiana stared at her sister, trying to understand the meaning of what the scholars were claiming. The days were getting shorter and the nights were getting longer. “Some kind of eclipse?” she called. The crowd quieted.

  Mistress Vanelle lowered her gaze. “That is one way of understanding it. It is not a phenomenon documented in any of my art’s tomes. But we may hope it comes and goes with no more import than an eclipse.”

  Jerya said, “Brother Jan Black, has your order no thoughts on this? Keldera is the mother of dawn, is she not?”

  The monk bowed deeply. “Your Highness. While she does look with affection on the dawn, Keldera is the mistress of summer and agriculture. The movements of the celestial bodies are the province of all the Firstborn. My order is concerned by this, but we believe it to be a consequence of a greater ill, just as the disrupted weather patterns are.”

  “Which is?” Jerya demanded. The audience caught its breath, anticipating the answer.

  The monk shifted his weight and looked at his feet. “Opinions vary on the source. Some blame Vassay’s recent activities. Some call it a Blight—” The crowd rippled.

  Lord Warrane interrupted, “And what do the Niyhani and the Logos-workers say, sir?”

  The monk weighed his answer carefully. “The Logos does not seem to directly indicate anything has changed. However—”

  Lord Aubin said, “Ever since Benjen, it has been popular to blame any ill on a Blight. But history tells us that there is perhaps one a generation. Doesn’t it seem far more probable that some sort of new phenomena is distorting your figures? Perhaps you should reanalyze the basic tenets of your discipline. O
r redo your math. In any case, leave your charts with a clerk, and we will consult experts in the field and decide what is going on.”

  Silence pooled around the three scholars. Then a clerk took their documents and the audience came back to life, rustling and murmuring as if nothing very interesting had happened. Jerya stretched, elaborately casual, and then leaned her chin on her palm. She held up the back of her other hand to the Justiciars, unfolding her fingers, one, two. Tiana realized she was keeping count of each major problem the Court was ignoring, and that somehow, just by moving her fingers, she was making a threat. She wondered if they were as intimidated as she was.

  Jerya’s voice was light as she said, “It’s not a universal conspiracy to suppress information, whatever our Uncle Yithiere tells me. I spoke to him yesterday and—” She shook her head. “Well. That isn’t happening here. The guards screen the petitioners. Those they deem inappropriate or dangerous are turned away, without recourse. Somebody decided their story needed to be publicly heard.”

  Tiana leaned forward. “What’s the worst way to interpret it?”

  Lisette looked up at Tiana, pushing her chestnut hair aside. “If the days keep getting shorter? Between that and the weather, there will be a famine. Life is already hard for the farmers and peasants. If their discovery is true….” Lisette shook her head. “It would be very bad. I’ve never even heard stories of anything like this, have you? But even if it’s a cycle that will peak and end, like the year itself, the Court can encourage people to start planning for it.”

  Tiana pushed her own hair back behind her shoulders. “Isn’t that good? I thought stores were how one survived famines.”

  Lisette shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. I don’t know. Ask Yithiere.”

  Tiana frowned and sat back again. It was disheartening. Something was going on. Somebody was trying to keep them out. She wasn’t sure about getting involved in ordinary politics, but it was the ancestral duty of the Blood to protect Ceria from supernatural threats. She worried that this was both politics and a supernatural threat, though. And who did you kill to keep the sun in the sky longer? She closed her mouth over another burst of shocked laughter. What would they do in the theater?

  She entertained herself in this way for a while. Then she noticed that another homespun-garbed monk was in line. This one carried a bundle wrapped in burlap, which prevented her from seeing which of the Firstborn he was associated with. He was alone, and he kept looking at the Royal Box, his eyes feverishly bright. She met his gaze, and he smiled and nodded to her jerkily. His smile was a frightening, gap-toothed thing, with no sense behind it. She lowered her eyes and watched him more furtively, braiding a loose lock of her hair.

  When he approached the white line, Lord Donatien smiled grimly. “Brother Helliac,” he said. “We’ve heard so much about you.”

  The monk nodded eagerly, trying to bow around his bundle. “I’ve come and come and waited and thank you so much for allowing me in today. It’s been so important. I’m glad you finally agree. I spoke with a young man about the night, is that why? No matter, but now you understand.”

  Lord Donatien said generously, “Oh, of course we do. You had a gift for the Blood and they’ve been so unavailable. But today, we have two members with us, observing.”

  Brother Helliac turned his bright gaze to the Royal Box. “I know.”

  Jerya tilted her head and called, “What is this about, my lord?”

  Lord Donatien said, “Brother Helliac here has been petitioning the gatekeeper for access to the Blood. He has a mysterious gift that he resists identifying, Your Highness. Normally, we strive to protect the Blood from dangerous wastes of their time, but since you’re here anyhow, I thought perhaps you’d like to meet him and accept his gift.” The monk nodded throughout Lord Donatien’s words, the absent smile never changing.

  Once again the Hall was silent. Encouragingly, Lord Donatien added, “It doesn’t seem to be a poisonous snake, but if it were, I’m sure you could handle it.” The silence rolled back across the room.

  You’d better run, because I’m not going to. Tiana rose to her feet. Lord Donatien closed his mouth abruptly, and Lord Warrane scowled. She looked down at Jerya’s impassive face and said loftily, “I’ll accept his gift in the name of our family, if you don’t mind, my darling sister.” The monsters are back. But laughing was inappropriate. So was crying.

  Jerya nodded once, and Tiana approached the white line and the monk standing before it. Slater shadowed her, two steps behind. The monk held his bundle close, staring at her. His smile faded, and he rasped in a voice suddenly rough, “You’re of the Blood? You’ve the hair and the eyes, but show me your power.”

  Tiana resisted rolling her eyes and looked around at her observers. The Justiciars wore a mixture of amused and concerned expressions. Lisette shook her head almost imperceptibly, while Jerya nodded approval. This was probably an attempt to humiliate them, but she felt supremely unconcerned about the possibility.

  She rose up on her toes and then hoisted herself into the air, floating on an emanation. She folded her legs beneath her into a dignified sitting position, for all that her skirt remained hanging down. Murmurs rippled across the audience.

  The mad smile returned and the monk said, “Oh, wonderful, wonderful, you’re real this time. The games they play….” He shook his head and clicked his tongue. “Come down, come down.” He fumbled under his bundle and pulled out a small pot. From her vantage point, Tiana could see that he wore no church insignia at all.

  He laid the bundle on the ground; it was almost as big as he was. Then he waved her closer, within easy reach. She heard Slater hiss a warning behind her, but she ignored him and drifted closer, letting her feet touch the ground just a step away from the monk and his bundle. He was barely taller than she was, a shriveled old man with a bald pate and big, bushy eyebrows. In his pot was what appeared to be some kind of blue salve or cosmetic. He dabbed his fingers into the substance and then held them out to Tiana, as if to put the substance on her face.

  There was a chuckle from the Justiciar’s Table behind her, though she wasn’t sure who it was from. She’d have to find out from Lisette later. She studied the monk, if monk he was. The substance in his pot didn’t have much of an odor. She looked at the color on his fingers and then at the man’s vivid blue eyes, his crazed smile. But a crazed smile didn’t mean much; if she avoided crazed smiles, she’d be avoiding half her family. She had to trust her instincts and to her instincts, he just didn’t feel dangerous.

  She lowered her head and let him dab some of it on her forehead. It was cold. He was drawing a shape. She tried to look like she was being generous and kind to a mad, old man, rather than embarrassed, even if she wasn’t sure what was going on. After he was done, he picked up his bundle and stroked his hand along the coverings. Then, still crouched down, presented it to Tiana, lifting it higher than his bowed head.

  Tiana lifted the bundle from his hands. It was lighter than she expected and she found, as she pulled the wrappings away, that the weight was mostly from the fabric. She pulled away two layers of cloth, found a third layer and glanced up uneasily to see the monk’s intent smile. She repressed a nervous laugh. Whatever it was, it was long and slender—a cane or a staff?

  The fourth covering, of silk, slipped away, and she stared at gleaming, razor-sharp metal peeking out from beneath the fifth and final hide wrapping. Then, carefully, she adjusted her grip downward until she found the bulge of the quillon and below that, the handle. Then, gripping that with both hands, she let the rest of the wrapping fall away from the sword.

  The blade was wider than the swords used by the Guard, but it was heavily etched and engraved with short lines and swirling designs. A deep groove paralleled the edge of the blade. Closer to the hilt, the blade widened even further, with frightening, fang-like protrusions. The rough interior of the lower part of the blade was stained a reddish black and an ebony stone was set directly in the metal above the handle.

&n
bsp; The marking on her forehead tingled. Then, it burned. She clapped one hand over it, turning an embarrassing shriek into a less embarrassing whimper. Her forehead was cool to the touch, and she couldn’t feel the paint at all.

  As she traced her fingers over the place where the mark had been drawn, the monk rose to his feet and lightly touched the blade with his hands, directing it down on the level, so it pointed at him. He smiled at Tiana, holding the blade down as she frowned at him. This time the smile wasn’t mad at all, but calm and encouraging.

  Softly, he said, “He will be cruel, but you are strong.”

  Then he stepped forward and pushed himself onto the point of the sword, pulling himself forward with bleeding hands until the blade emerged from his back. Falling to his knees, he reached up to brush Tiana’s shocked face with crimson fingers.

  The stained interior of the blade turned from black to scarlet. This time, she failed to control her scream.

  Chapter 11

  Cookie Reception

  Lisette tried to suggest, in her delicate Regent way, that Tiana miss the reception that evening. She’d had quite a shock, after all. But Tiana wasn’t having any of that, not after her first day at court, not after today. She’d earned the reception. Twice in one week, her hands were covered in blood, but so what? She was the Blood; did they expect something else?

  The Chancellor tried to suggest, in his gruff Chancellor way, that he take the sword and put it someplace safe. It would only further disturb her if it was around. Tiana wasn’t having any of that, either. She put it on the mantle over her fireplace, where some people put trophies.

  Then she went to write a letter to her mother, detailing all the pleasant parts of her week. It was very short, but it was traditional. When she was done, she put the letter into the same box she’d been putting letters to her mother in for the last eight years. It was a big box, with three neat stacks of paper. But it didn’t bring her the usual release from anxiety when she was done.