by S L Farrell
He was beginning to dare to think it was possible.
He nearly didn’t notice the shape that moved to his left, the fragment of darkness that suddenly lifted and hurtled itself at him. He caught only a glimpse of a grim face before the man struck him from the side and bore him off the saddle. Light flared behind his eyes as he struck the ground, and Enéas screamed with the pain of his tormented leg, twisted underneath him. He heard the destrier galloping away, riderless, and then the shadow of a Westlander warrior was standing over him, his arm raised, and Enéas fell again into the dark.
Allesandra ca’Vörl
“I WOULD LIKE TO APOLOGIZE for my wife, A’Hïrzg. She . . . well, the subject of the Witch Archigos always upsets her. They have a . . . history together, after all. Still, she should not have been so outspoken at dinner last night, especially toward you as the host.”
Allesandra nodded to Archigos Semini. They were seated on a viewing platform high on a slope behind the Hïrzg’s private estate—the palais at Stag Fall, well outside Brezno. They faced east, the platform overlooking a wide, long meadow of tall grass dotted with wildflowers. There, below them, they could see a cluster of figures and horses: Fynn, Jan, and several others. On either side of the meadow, in the tall fir forest, drums echoed from the flanks of the steep, verdant hills that formed the landscape: the sound of the beaters, herding their prey toward the meadow and the waiting Hïrzg.
Behind Allesandra on the balcony, servants bustled about with drinks and food as they set a long table for dinner. Otherwise, Allesandra and the Archigos were alone; all the other favored ca’-and-cu’ who would be dining with them that evening were with the Hïrzg’s party in the meadow. Allesandra had little desire to be in such close proximity with her brother for that long. She wasn’t certain why Semini had remained behind at the palais—Francesca was in the meadow with the others.
“Please believe me when I say that I took no offense, Archigos,” Allesandra told the man. “Even though I have far more sympathy for Archigos Ana, I understand how your wife might feel that way.”
She glanced at Semini and saw him smile. “Thank you,” he told her. “That’s kind of you.” He glanced carefully at the servants, then pitched his voice low enough that they couldn’t overhear. “Between the two of us, A’Hïrzg, I wish that I could have convinced your vatarh to name you as his heir. That boy—” he pointed with his chin down to the gathering in the meadow, “—would be a perfectly adequate Starkkapitän for the Garde Civile, but he hasn’t the vision or intelligence to be a good Hïrzg.”
“I do believe I hear the Archigos speaking treason.” Allesandra kept her gaze carefully away from him, her attention on Jan astride his horse next to Fynn. She wondered whether she could believe what ca’Cellibrecca was saying, and she wondered why he would voice it aloud to her. He had a reason for doing so, she was certain: Semini was not a man for accidental statements. But what was the reason? What did he want, and how would it benefit him?
“Did I perhaps speak what is also in your heart, A’Hïrzg, even if you don’t dare say it aloud?” Semini answered in the same hoarse, low whisper. He turned toward her. “My heart is here, in this country, A’Hïrzg Allesandra. I want what is best for Firenzcia. Nothing more. I have given my life in service to Cénzi, and in service to Firenzcia. I shared your vatarh’s vision of a Holdings where Brezno, not Nessantico, was the center of all things. He nearly achieved that vision. He would have accomplished that, I’m convinced, if it hadn’t been for the heretical sorcery of the Witch Archigos.”
There was hatred in his voice, genuine and heated. And also a strange satisfaction.
Vatarh would have succeeded if Ana hadn’t taken me hostage, if she hadn’t snatched me away from Vatarh and used me to end the war. As long as Allesandra remained in Nessantico, as long as her vatarh refused to pay the demanded ransom, his defeat was still incomplete. There was still hope that the results might change, and it had taken him a decade and more to lose that hope.
That’s what she’d told herself. That’s what Ana had told her. Ana had never spoken an unkind word against Hïrzg Jan; she had always cast him in as sympathetic a light as she could, even when Allesandra fumed and raged against his slowness to ransom her.
Allesandra caught her breath, her hand going to her throat, to the cracked globe of Cénzi around her neck.
Ca’Cellibrecca evidently misinterpreted the thought behind the gesture. “Ah, I see we share our opinion of Ana ca’Seranta. That creature kept the Holdings from falling apart entirely under that one-legged fool Justi—and now, at last, she’s gone, praise Cénzi.” His voice softened even further as he leaned close to Allesandra. “Now would be the time for a new Hïrzg to achieve what your vatarh could not . . . or it would be if we had a Hïrzg—or Hïrzgin—worthy of the task. Someone who was not Fynn. There are those in Nessantico who believe that, A’Hïrzg. People you might not suspect of harboring such thoughts.”
The clamor of the beaters was coming closer in the valley beneath them. The riders were stirring restlessly, and Allesandra saw Fynn signal to Jan to nock his bow. “What are you saying to me, Archigos?” she asked, watching the tableau beneath them.
“I am saying that you are currently the A’Hïrzg, but we both know that’s a temporary situation. But if Fynn were . . .” He hesitated. The drums crashed loudly below, and now they could hear a thrashing under the shade of the trees to the right. “. . . somehow no longer the Hïrzg, then you would become Hïrzgin.” Another pause. “As you should have been.”
The drums and shouting grew louder, and suddenly a stag emerged from the tree line several dozen strides from the Hïrzg’s party. The beast was magnificent, with antlers the span of a person’s arms and shoulders easily a tall man’s height or more. The pelt was a stunning reddish brown with a flash of white under the throat. The stag cantered out from the brush, then caught the scent of the hunting party. Allesandra felt herself holding her breath, looking at the gorgeous creature; alongside her, she heard Semini mutter: “By Cénzi, look at that gorgeous beast!”
The stag stopped, glaring at the riders momentarily before taking an enormous leap and bounding away from them toward the far end of the meadow. At the same moment, they saw an arrow speed away from Fynn’s bow, the twang of the bowstring following belatedly to their ears. The stag went down with its rear legs in a tangle, the arrow embedded in its hindquarters. Then it pushed itself up once more and began running.
Jan had kicked his horse into motion with Fynn’s shot, and now he raced after the wounded stag, controlling to his horse with his legs alone as he drew back the string of his bow. At full speed, he loosed his own arrow with the stag only a few bare strides from reaching the cover of the forest once more.
The stag shuddered, the arrow plunging deep in the left side of its chest. It ran a few more steps, nearly to the woods. It seemed to be gathering itself—it leaped, but its front legs snagged on the log it was trying to vault, and it went down.
The stag lay on its side, its legs thrashing at the brush and tearing clods of grassy earth from the ground with its antlers. Fynn galloped up to where Jan had pulled up his horse. Allesandra saw him slap Jan once on the shoulder, then Fynn put another arrow to his bow.
With Fynn’s shot, the stag went still. A distant cheer echoed from the hunting party.
“Your son’s physique may be slight, but he’s an excellent horseman and a better archer. That was impressive—to shoot like that while in full pursuit.”
Allesandra smiled. For a moment, he almost looked like his great-vatarh, riding that way. . . . Below, Fynn and Jan had dismounted to go to the downed stag. “Moving archery is a skill taught to the Magyarian cavalry—and Jan’s had excellent teachers.”
“He’s had excellent instruction in politics, as well. He waited for the Hïrzg to give the killing blow. I assume you’ve been his teacher in that.”
“He knows what he should do, even if he sometimes ignores my advice,” Allesandra said. “Gener
ally because I’m the one who gave it,” she added.
“Children of his age feel they must rebel against their parents. It’s natural, and I wouldn’t be too concerned with it, A’Hïrzg. He’ll learn. And one day, if he were the A’Hïrzg rather than just another ca’ somewhere in the line of succession to be Gyula of West Magyaria . . .” He let his voice trail off.
Allesandra turned to him finally. He towered over her like a green-clad bear. His dark eyes were on hers. Yes, he has eyes in which you could lose yourself. “You continue to give me these little intimations and hints, Archigos,” she said quietly. “Do you have more than that to offer, or are you trying to goad me into revealing myself? That won’t happen.”
Ca’Cellibrecca nodded slowly and leaned down to her. His mouth was close enough to her ear that she felt his warm breath. It made her shiver. “I have an offer, A’Hïrzg. If this is something that interests you, I do indeed,” he whispered. Then he stood and applauded toward the meadow. “The cooks will have some fine venison steaks,” he said loudly, “and there will be new antlers to adorn the palais. We should go down and meet the brave hunters, A’Hïrzg. What do you say?”
He offered her his arm.
She rose, and took it.
Karl ca’Vliomani
“WHERE ARE YOU GOING?” Varina asked him.
Karl had spent the the first night after Ana’s death at Mika’s house, but despite the solicitude of Mika and his wife, Karl had found their house—with their children and now the first of their grand-children always coming in or out—too full of life and energy. He’d gone back to his own suite of rooms on the South Bank. It was Varina who came there every day, badgering his servants and generally making certain that he was fed and cared for. She left him alone with his grief; she was there when he needed to talk, or when he simply wanted the feel of another person in the room. She seemed to know when he needed silence, and she allowed him to have it. For that, he was grateful.
He remembered long ago when he’d first shown Ana what the Numetodo could do. That night, it had been Varina, a raw newcomer to the group, who Ana had seen demonstrating a spell. Varina had grown much since then; she was second now to Mika within the Numetodo here in the city, and there was no one at all who rivaled her dedication to research, nor her ability with the Scáth Cumhacht. He had never quite understood how it was she had remained alone all these years: she had been particularly striking in her youth: hair the color of autumn wheat; wide, expressive eyes the color of ancient, varnished oak; a wonderful, engaging smile and laugh that always made others smile with her. She was still attractive even now in middle years, even if in the last few years she had seemed to age quickly. Yet . . . she seemed to take all the vitality and energy she possessed and put it solely into learning the intricacies of the Scáth Cumhacht and the Second World, to find all the ways to bind that power. Even within the Numetodo, she rarely seemed to speak at length to anyone but Mika or Karl. As far as Karl knew, she had no other friends or lovers outside the group. She was an enigma, even to those closest to her.
He appreciated Varina’s presence now, even if he didn’t know how to express it.
He’d brooded on Ana’s death now for a week, turning it over and over in his mind like a sick, ugly compost. Someone had wanted her dead. Ana had been the target, the assassin waiting for her to come to the High Lectern; certainly Karl had seen the other téni at the service ascend the lectern to place the readings and the scroll with the Admonition that Ana had intended to read, and they had not triggered the explosion.
The more he contemplated that, the more there seemed to be only one answer. An answer he wanted verified.
Varina was leaning against an archway of the anteroom as Karl shrugged on his cloak, her arms folded. She didn’t repeat her query, only regarded him softly, as if concerned.
“I have an appointment,” he told her. She nodded. Still silent. Her eyes were wide and unblinking. “I have questions to ask.”
Another nod. “I’ll go with you,” she said. He hesitated. “I won’t interfere,” she told him. “If you’re going where I think you’re going, you may need the support. Am I right?”
“Get your cloak,” he told her. She smiled briefly—a flash of white teeth—and plucked her cloak from the peg on the wall.
The Ambassador from the Firenzcian Coalition, Andreas cu’Görin, possessed a face as thin and angular as a falcon’s. As he rose from behind his desk, his heather-colored eyes regarded Karl and Varina as if the two were rabbits to be snatched up and devoured. The hawkish face was supplemented with a swordsman’s lean body. Karl could imagine that the man was more comfortable in armor than in the proper, conservative bashta he wore.
It made him wonder how effective he could be here.
“Ambassador ca’Vliomani, Vajica ci’Pallo, your visit is . . . unexpected,” cu’Görin said. “What can I do for you?”
Karl glanced pointedly at the aide who occupied the smaller desk on the other side of the room. “Gerald, why don’t you see if you can find that proposal on the new border regulations?” cu’Görin said. The aide, as burly and thick as cu’Görin was slight, nodded and shuffled papers noisily for a breath before leaving the room.
Karl waited until he heard the door click shut behind him. “I’ve spent the last several days thinking about Archigos Ana’s murder, Ambassador,” he said. The words sounded almost casual, even to his ears. Varina shuffled her feet uneasily next to him. “You know, as much as I try to find reasons for someone doing that, I can’t think of anyone who would want her dead except the people you represent.”
Varina sucked in her breath audibly. A cloud passed over the heather eyes, deepening them to green. The muscles of the man’s face tightened and his right hand closed as if it were searching for a sword’s hilt. “You’re rather blunt and direct, Ambassador.”
“I’ve given up diplomacy for now,” he answered.
Cu’Görin sniffed. “Indeed. Then I will be blunt as well. I find your accusation insulting. I’ll forgive you, knowing how . . .” His nose twitched, the eyes narrowed. “. . . close you were to the Archigos of Nessantico, but I also expect an immediate apology.”
“It’s been my experience that expectations are often disappointed,” Karl said.
“Karl . . .” Varina said softly. Her hand brushed his arm. “Perhaps . . .”
Her voice died, as if she knew he wasn’t listening. The anger burned in his gut. Karl wanted nothing more than for cu’Görin to make a physical move or to blatantly insult him, anything to give him an excuse to use the Scáth Cumhacht that was smoldering in his mind waiting for the release word. But cu’Görin shook his head; he didn’t sit, but seemed to lounge behind the desk, unperturbed.
“I think, Ambassador ca’Vliomani, that you discount the possibility that the assassin may have been a rogue, or perhaps hired by someone who had a personal grudge against the Archigos—someone within the Holdings of Nessantico. There’s no reason to attach a conspiracy to this.” His eyebrows arched; the rest of his body remained still. “Unless, of course, you have evidence that you care to share with me? But no, if you had that, you would have gone to the Regent, wouldn’t you? The Commandant of the Garde Kralji would be standing here, not two Numetodo heretics.” Slowly, almost mockingly, he sat again. Long fingers toyed with the parchments scattered on the desk’s surface, and the hawk face returned, looking scornfully at Karl. “I think we’re done here, Ambassador. Firenzcia has no business to do with heretics, and we never will. We’re wasting each other’s time.”
The dismissal was a wind to his internal fire. “No!” Karl shouted. “We’re not done!” He gestured, speaking one of the release words he’d prepared before he’d come. Quick fire crawled over the papers on the Ambassador’s desk, consuming them in the instant it took cu’Görin to react, jumping backward from his seat. A quick wind followed, blowing the papers past cu’Görin and out the open window and whipping the Ambassador’s bashta—that had to be Varina. “That fire c
ould have been directed to you as easily as those documents,” Karl told him. He heard the door crash open behind him and he lifted a hand warningly as he felt Varina turn to face the threat. “I didn’t come with only a single spell, Ambassador, and my friend is stronger than I am. Tell your people to stay back, or I guarantee that you—at least—won’t leave this room alive.”
“Neither will you, if you persist in this nonsense,” cu’Görin snarled, and Karl nearly laughed.
“That hardly matters to me at this point,” he told the man. Varina’s back pressed against his. He felt her arms lift, preparing a spell.
The Ambassador waved a hand to the people behind Karl. He heard a sword being sheathed and felt Varina’s arms drop again. “I tell you again, Ambassador,” cu’Görin said, “you are mistaken if you think that Firenzcia was involved in the Archigos’ death. Kill me, don’t kill me; that won’t change that fact.”
“I don’t believe you.”
