by S L Farrell
“If Allesandra were on the throne of Firenzcia, I’d feel better about everything,” Ana continued. “I’d feel there was some hope that the Holdings could be restored. If Allesandra were Hïrzgin . . .” Another sigh. She looked over her shoulder at the huge, ornamental cracked globe that dominated the far corner of the room: gilded and bejeweled, with carvings of the Moitidi—the demigods who were the sons and daughters of Cénzi—writhing in agony around its base. Her voice was a half-whisper, as if she were afraid someone might overhear her. “Then I might consider opening negotiations with Semini ca’Cellibrecca, to see if the Faith could also be reunited.”
Varina sucked in her breath and Ana glanced at her sympathetically. “I know, Varina,” she said. “I assure you that the safety of the Numetodo would be a nonnegotiable point, even if I were willing to step aside as Archigos for Semini. I wouldn’t tolerate a repeat of the persecutions.”
“You couldn’t trust ca’Cellibrecca to keep those promises,” Varina told her. “He’s his marriage-vatarh’s son, all the way through.”
“Ca’Cellibrecca would be bound to keep a public pledge, as well as his vows to Cénzi.”
“You have more more faith in him than I do,” Varina answered. That caused Ana to smile.
“Strange to hear a Numetodo speak of faith,” she said, her hand reaching out to touch Varina’s shoulder through her tashta. She laughed pleasantly. “But I understand your concern and your skepticism. I ask you to trust me—if it came to that, I will make certain you, Karl, and all your people are protected.”
“Will it come to that?” Karl interjected. He’d watched Ana’s hand as if wishing she were touching him. “You think there’s a chance, Ana?”
She looked at the paper in her hand as if searching for an answer there, then turned to drop the scroll on a nearby table. It made little sound—a strange thing, Varina thought, for something so heavy with import. “I don’t know,” Ana said. “There’s no love lost between Allesandra and her brother—given how long Allesandra was here with me while both of them were growing up, they’re more strangers than siblings, and the way Hïrzg Jan treated Allesandra when he did ransom her . . .” Ana shook her head. “But I don’t know what Allesandra wants anymore, or what her desires and aspirations might be. I thought I knew once, but . . .”
“You were a matarh to her,” Karl said, and Ana laughed again.
“No, I wasn’t that. Maybe an older sister or a tantzia. I tried to be someone she could be safe with, because the poor child was all alone here for far too long. I can’t imagine how much that hurt her.”
“You were wonderful to her,” Karl persisted. Varina watched Karl’s hand reach out to take Ana’s. It hurt to watch the gesture. “You were.”
“Thank you, but I always wonder if I could have done more, or better,” Ana said. She moved her hands slowly away from his. “I did what I could. That’s all Cénzi can ask, I suppose.” She smiled. “We’ll see what happens, won’t we? I’ll keep you informed if I hear any more news.”
“You’re still available for dinner tomorrow?” Karl asked her.
Ana’s gaze slid from Karl to Varina and back. “Yes,” she said. “After Third Call. Would you like to join us, Varina?”
She could feel Karl staring at her. “No,” Varina said hurriedly. “I can’t, Archigos. I have a meeting with Mika, and a class to teach . . .” Too many excuses, but Karl was nodding. His satisfaction at her answer was like the cut of a small blade.
“Tomorrow night, then,” he said. “I’m looking forward to it. We should probably go, Varina. I’m sure the Archigos has other business. . . .” He inclined his head toward Ana and started toward the door. Varina turned to follow him, but Ana’s voice called out behind them.
“Varina, a moment? Karl, I’ll send her along directly, I promise.” Karl glanced back, puzzled, but he bowed again and went to the doors. The two massive panels were carved with bas-reliefs of the Moitidi in battle, with swords clashing and overlapping at the join. Karl pulled and the combatants separated. Varina waited until the polished, dark wood had closed behind him and the Moitidi were once again at war.
“Archigos?”
“I wanted a moment with you, Varina, because I’m worried,” Ana said. “You look so tired and so drawn. Thin. I know how caught up you’ve become in your . . . research. Are you remembering to eat?”
Varina touched her face. She knew what Ana was saying. She’d seen her face in the small mirror she kept on her dressing table. Her fingertips traced the new lines that had emerged in the past several months, felt the coarseness of the gray hairs at her temple. She was afraid to look in the mirror most mornings—the face that looked back at her was an older stranger she barely recognized. “I’m fine,” she said reflexively.
“Are you?” Ana asked again. “These ‘experiments’ Karl says you’re doing, attempting to recreate what Mahri could do . . .” She shook her head. “I worry about you, Varina. So does Karl.”
“So does Karl . . .” She wished she could believe those words. “I’m fine,” she repeated.
“I could use the Ilmodo if you’d like—it might help. If you’re in pain.”
“You’d disobey the Divolonté and heal me? An unbeliever? Archigos!” Varina smiled at Ana, who laughed in return.
“I can trust you to keep my secrets,” Ana said. “And the offer stands, if you ever feel the need.”
“Thank you, Archigos. I’ll keep that in mind.” She nodded her head toward the silent, battling Moitidi. “I should catch up with Karl.”
“Yes, you should.” Ana started to give the sign of Cénzi to Varina, then stopped herself. “I could tell him,” she said.
“Archigos?”
“I have eyes. When I see you with him . . .”
Varina laughed. “You’re the only one he sees, Archigos.”
“And I’m bound to Cénzi,” Ana said. “No one else. I’m not destined for that kind of relationship in this life. I’ve told him that. I treasure his friendship and all he’s done for me and Nessantico. I love Karl dearly, more than I ever loved anyone else. But what he wants . . .” Her head moved slowly from side to side as her lips pressed together. “You should tell him how you feel.”
“If I need to tell him, then it’s obvious that the feeling isn’t shared,” Varina answered. She managed to force her lips into an upward curve. “And I’m bound to my work, as you’re bound to Cénzi.”
Ana stepped forward and gave Varina a quick hug. “Then Karl’s a fool, for not seeing how alike we are.”
Audric ca’Dakwi
EVEN A KRALJIKI could not avoid his lessons, nor the examinations designed to scrape away whatever essence of knowledge clung to the inside of his skull.
Audric stood before the Sun Throne with his hands clasped behind his back, facing his tutor, Maister ci’Blaylock. Behind the brittle, chalk-dusted stick of the maister, the audience gazed at Audric with smiling encouragement: a few chevarittai bedecked with their Blood Medals, the ca’-and-cu’, the usual courtiers, Sigourney ca’Ludovici, and a few other members of the Council of Ca’ . . . all those who wished Audric to notice that they had attended the young Kraljiki’s quarterly examination. At fourteen, Audric was all too aware of the flattering attention that came to him because of his lineage and his title.
They weren’t there for the examination; they were there to be seen. By him. Only by him.
He enjoyed that thought.
“Year 471,” ci’Blaylock intoned, looking up from the scroll-laden lectern at which he stood. “The line of the Kralji.”
An easy one, that. No challenge at all. “Kraljica Marguerite ca’Ludovici,” Audric answered quickly and firmly. He coughed then—he coughed often—and added: “Also known as the Généra a’Pace.”
And also my great-matarh . . . Marguerite’s uneasily realistic portrait, painted by the late master artisan Edouard ci’Recroix—who had also created the large canvas of a peasant family that adorned this very Hall of the Sun Thro
ne—hung in Audric’s bedroom. Marguerite watched him every night as he slept, and gave him the same strange, weary half-smile every morning when he woke. He’d wished many times that he’d had the chance to actually know her—he’d certainly heard enough tales regarding her. He sometimes wondered if all the tales were true: in the memories of the people of Nessantico, Kraljica Marguerite had presided over a Golden Age, an age of sunlight compared to the storm-wrapped politics of the present.
The court applauded politely at his answer, smiling. Most of their pleasure was undoubtedly due to the fact that they were finally nearing the end of the examination, as Maister ci’Blaylock slowly climbed the ladder of history. They’d begun—nearly half a turn of the glass ago—in Year 413 with Kraljiki Henri VI, the first year of the ca’Ludovici line from which Audric himself was descended; the onlookers had been standing the entire time since, after all, one did not sit in the presence of the Kraljiki without permission. Audric knew the answers to the few remaining questions; how could he not, being so intricately bound up in his family’s life? A barely discernible sigh emanated from the court, along with a rustling of clothing as they shifted their stances. “Correct,” ci’Blaylock said, sniffing. He was a dark-skinned man, as many from the province of Namarro were. He dipped the tip of his quill pen into the inkwell of the lectern and made a short, deliberate mark on the open scroll. The scratch of the pen was loud. The wings of his white eyebrows fluttered above cataract-pale eyes. “Year 485. The line of the Archigi.”
Cough. “Archigos Kasim ca’Velarina.” Cough.
More polite applause, and another dip and scratch of the pen.. “Correct. Year 503. The line of the Archigi.”
Audric took a breath and coughed again. “Archigos Dhosti ca’Millac,” he said. “The Dwarf.” Applause. Pen scratch. Audric heard the far door of the hall open; Regent Sergei ca’Rudka entered, striding quickly forward to where Audric was standing. Despite his years, the Regent moved with energy and a straight bearing. The courtiers, with a cautious glance, slid quickly aside to give him room. Sergei’s silver artificial nose alternately gleamed and dimmed in the shafts of failing sunlight streaming through the windows.
“Correct,” ci’Blaylock intoned. “Year 521. The line of the Kralji.”
That was easy: That was the year Audric’s vatarh had taken the Sun Throne after Marguerite’s assassination. Audric took another breath, but the effort sent him into a momentary coughing spasm: deep and filled with the ugly sound of liquid in his lungs. Afterward, he straightened and cleared his throat. “Kraljiki Justi ca’Dakwi,” he told ci’Blaylock and the courtiers. “The Great Warrior,” he added. That was the appellation Justi had given himself. Audric had heard the other whispered names given him when people thought no one was listening: Justi the One-Legged; Justi the Incompetent; Justi the Great Failure.
Those names no one would have dared say to the Kraljiki’s face while he’d been alive. Audric looked at the smiles pasted on the faces of the ca’-and-cu’ and wondered what names they called him when he was not there to hear.
Audric the Ill. Audric the Regent’s Puppet.
Again, applause came from the onlookers. Sergei, his arms crossed, didn’t join them. He watched from just behind Maister ci’Blaylock, who seemed to feel the pressure of the man’s presence. He glanced once over his shoulder at the Regent and shivered visibly. “Umm . . .” The old man shook his head, glanced at the scroll, then plunged an ink-stained forefinger toward it. “Year 521,” he said. “The line of the Archigi.”
That one was a longer answer but still easy. “Archigos Orlandi ca’Cellibrecca. The Great Traitor and first false Archigos of Brezno.” Audric coughed again, pausing to clear his throat. “Then the same year, after ca’Cellibrecca betrayed the Concénzia Faith and Kraljiki Justi at Passe a’Fiume, Archigos Ana ca’Seranta, the youngest téni ever named Archigos.”
Ana, who still held the title of Archigos. Ana, whom Audric loved as if she were the matarh he’d never known. Audric smiled at the mention of her name, and the applause that came then was genuine—Archigos Ana was well and truly loved by the people of Nessantico.
“Correct,” ci’Blaylock said. “Very good. Also Year 521. War and politics.”
“The Rebellion of Hïrzg Jan ca’Vörl,” Audric answered quickly. The guttural Firenzcian syllables sent his lungs into spasm again. It took several breaths to stop them and manage to talk again. “The Hïrzg was defeated by Kraljiki Justi at the Battle of the Fens,” he managed to croak out, finally.
“Excellent!” The voice was not ci’Blaylock’s but Sergei’s, as he applauded loudly and strode out to stand alongside Audric. The courtiers joined the applause belatedly and uncertainly. Sigourney ca’Ludovici, Audric noticed, didn’t applaud at all, only crossed her arms and glared. “Maister ci’Blaylock, I’m sure you’ve heard enough to make your judgment,” Sergei continued.
Ci’Blayblock frowned. “Regent, I wasn’t quite fin—” He stopped, and Audric saw him staring at the Regent’s frown. He laid down the quill and started to roll up the testing scroll. “Yes, that was very satisfactory,” he said. “Well done, Kraljiki, as always.”
“Good,” Sergei said. “Now, if all of you will excuse us . . .”
The Regent’s dismissal was abrupt but effective. Maister ci’Blaylock gathered up his scrolls and limped toward the nearest door; the courtiers drifted away like tendrils of fog on a sunny morning, smiling until they turned their backs. Audric could hear their furious whispering speculations as they left the hall. Sigourney, however, paused. “Is this something the Council of Ca’ should know?” she asked Sergei. She wasn’t looking at Audric; it was as if he weren’t important enough to be noticed.
Sergei shook his head. “Not at the moment, Councillor ca’Ludovici,” he said. “If it becomes so, be assured that I will let you know immediately.”
Sigourney sniffed at that, but she nodded to Sergei and bowed the proper obeisance to Audric before leaving the hall. Only a few servants remained, standing silently by the tapestry-hung stone walls, while two e-téni—priests of the Concénzia Faith—whispered prayers as they lit the lamps against the dying light. On the wall near the Sun Throne, the faces of the peasant family in ci’Recroix’s painting seemed to shiver in the light of the téni-fire.
“Thank you, Sergei,” Audric said. He hacked again, covering his mouth with a fisted hand. “You could have come half a turn of the glass earlier, though, and saved me the whole ordeal.”
Sergei grinned. “And face the wrath of Maister ci’Blaylock? Not likely.” He paused a moment, and the lines of his face went serious around the metal nose. “I would have been here earlier to hear your examination, Kraljiki, but I’ve just received a message from a contact in Firenzcia. There’s news, and I thought you should hear it before the Council: Hïrzg Jan of Firenzcia is on his deathbed. He’s not expected to live out the week. It may be that he’s dead already—the message was days old.”
“So A’Hïrzg Fynn will become the new Hïrzg? Or will Allesandra fight her brother’s ascension?”
Sergei’s grin returned momentarily. “Ah, so you do pay attention to my briefings. Good. That’s far more important than Maister ci’Blaylock’s lessons.” He shook his head. “I doubt Allesandra will protest. She doesn’t have enough backing from the ca’-and-cu’ of Firenzcia to contest Hïrzg Jan’s will.”
“Which of the two would we prefer?”
“Our own preference would be Allesandra, Kraljiki—after the decade and more she spent here waiting for Hïrzg Jan to ransom her, we know her far better. Archigos Ana always had a good relationship with her, and Allesandra is far more sympathetic to the Holdings. If she became Hïrzgin . . . well, maybe there would be some hope of reconciliation between the Holdings and the Coalition. There might even be a faint possibility that we could return things to the way they were in your great-matarh’s time, with you on the Sun Throne under a reunited Holdings. But with Fynn as Hïrzg . . .” Again, Sergei shook his head. “He is his va
tarh’s son, just as bellicose and stubborn. If he’s Hïrzg, we’ll have to watch our eastern border closely—which will mean less resources we can spare for the war in the Hellins, unfortunately.”
Audric bent over with another coughing fit, and Sergei placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Your cough is worsening again, Kraljiki,” he said. “I’ll have the healers make another potion for you, and perhaps we’ll have Archigos Ana see you tomorrow after the Day of Return ceremony. It’s a little early, but with the rains last month . . .”
“I’m better now,” Audric told him. “It’s just the damp air here in the hall.” The nearest e’téni had stopped her chant, her hands frozen in the middle of shaping the Ilmodo—the energy that fueled their magic. She was a young woman not much older than Audric; she blushed when she saw that Audric had noticed her, looked quickly away, and began her chant anew: the lamp set high on the wall bloomed into light as her hands waved in the Ilmodo patterns under it.
