by S L Farrell
Yes. I want that more than you’d believe. Sergei scratched at the side of the nose where the glue irritated his skin; a few flecks of the resin flaked off under his fingernail. “There’s nothing wrong with that. Things were good then, with Kraljica Marguerite and Dhosti wearing the Archigos’ robes. There was no better time for the Holdings or for the Faith. We lived in a perfect time and we didn’t even know it.”
“Yes, we did. I agree.” Kenne sighed with the memory.
The gilded doors to the temple behind them opened and an older u’téni emerged: Sergei recognized him: Petros cu’Magnaio, Kenne’s assistant. The man had lived with Kenne since his time with Archigos Dhosti. Kenne nodded to cu’Magnaio with a smile as he set down a tray of fruit and tea between the two of them. It never bothered Sergei that Kenne was afflicted with what was euphemistically called “Gardai’s Disease.” There was some truth, after all, to the appellation: when away for years on a campaign, soldiers sometimes took comfort where they could find it, with those who were around them. “It will be getting chilly with the sunset,” cu’Magnaio said. “I thought the two of you might like hot tea.”
Kenne’s hand hovered above cu’Magnaio’s but didn’t quite touch him—Sergei knew that would have been different if he had not been there. “Thank you, Petros. We won’t be long here, but I appreciate it.”
Cu’Magnaio bowed and gave the sign of Cénzi to them. “I’ll make sure that you’re not disturbed while you’re talking. Archigos, Regent. . . .” He left them, closing the balcony doors behind him.
“He’s a good man,” Sergei said. “You’ve been lucky with him.”
Kenne nodded, gazing fondly toward the doors where Petros had gone. Then he shook himself as if remembering something. “Speaking of those who have sat on the Sun Throne, Sergei, I’m sorry the Kraljiki couldn’t join us this evening. How is Audric feeling?”
Sergei lifted a shoulder. Below, the light-téni moved out from the temple to lamps further down the Avi, the crowds walking with them, murmuring. The doves fluttered down from the domes of the Temple and the rooftops of the buildings in the complex to peck at the vacated stones of the plaza for leavings. “He’s not good.” He glanced back over his shoulder; the doors remained closed but he still lowered his voice. “Have you had any luck finding another téni with healing skills?”
Kenne sighed. “That has always been among the rarest of gifts, and since the Divolonté specifically condemns its use . . . well, it’s been difficult. But I have hopes. Petros is making judicious inquiries for me. We’ll find someone.” He paused, glanced at the fruit on the plate between them and selected a piece. Kenne had long, delicate hands, but the flesh wrapping his bones was wrinkled and thin, and Sergei could see the tremor as the Archigos lifted a slice of sweetrind to his lips and sucked at it. We can’t afford weakness in both the Kraljiki and the Archigos, not if we hope to survive.
“Sergei, we need to consider what happens if the boy dies,” Kenne continued, almost as if he’d heard Sergei’s thoughts. “Justi’s offspring . . .” He frowned and set the sweetrind back on the plate. “Too sour,” he said. “Justi’s children have never been known for their longevity.”
The téni moved along the Avi and out of sight. The crowds in the square of the temple began to disperse; the sound of the choir ended in a lingering, ethereal chord. “I hope that Cénzi doesn’t make us face that choice,” Sergei said carefully. “But it’s what everyone’s wondering, isn’t it?”
“There are the ca’Ludovici twins, Sigourney or Donatien. They’re, what . . .” Kenne’s thin lips pursed in concentration. “. . . second cousins once removed from Audric and first cousins to Justi, since Marguerite was their great-great aunt. They’re already of age and more, which is good. Donatien, particularly, has distinguished himself in the Hellin Wars, even if things haven’t been going well of late, and he’s married to a ca’Sibelli, a solid Nessantican family—we could call him back from the Hellins. Sigourney might be the better choice, though. She still carries the ca’Ludovici surname, of course: that certainly has incredible weight here, and she’s made her presence felt on the Council of Ca’. The two of them have the closest lineage claim, I believe, and I’m certain the Council of Ca’ would sustain either of their claims to take the Sun Throne.”
Sergei was unsurprised to find that the Archigos’ thoughts were so closely paralleling his own; he suspected this was the case throughout both the Holdings and the Coalition. He paused, wondering whether he should say more. It would be interesting, perhaps, to see how Kenne would react. “Allesandra ca’Vörl can claim the same lineage and the same relationship through her matarh,” Sergei answered, as if idly musing. “For that matter, so could the new Hïrzg Fynn. They’re also second cousins to Marguerite—with a claim to the throne equal to Sigourney or Donatien.”
In the fierce light of the téni-lamps, Kenne’s eyebrows clambered up the ridges of his forehead. “You’re not seriously suggesting . . .”
The volatile tone was the reaction he’d expected, and Sergei grinned quickly to make it seem that the words were only a jest. “Hardly,” Sergei told him. “Just pointing out how Allesandra might respond. Certainly Sigourney or Donatien would be good choices, as you suggest, though perhaps we need Donatien to remain as commandant in the Hellins. However, Audric’s not dead, and I’d prefer that he stay that way. But if the worst would happen . . . You’re right; we should be considering the succession. The Holdings are already broken, thanks to Justi’s incompetence, and we can’t afford to have what is left shatter further.” He paused. He deliberately narrowed his eyes and stroked his chin, as if the thought had just now occurred to him. “But . . . Perhaps a compromise could be worked between the Holdings and the Coalition if the worst happened, Kenne. A ca’Vörl to take the Sun Throne, but the Concénzia Faith ruled by you, not Semini ca’Cellibrecca.” There. See what he makes of the offer.
“You’d have Ana’s murderers seated on the Sun Throne?” The horror in the man’s voice was palpable.
Sergei sniffed—a loud sound, whistling through the metal nostrils of his false nose. “You’re making the same accusation as Ambassador ca’Vliomani. As of the moment, it’s unfounded.”
“Who else would have done this to Ana, Sergei? We know it wasn’t the Numetodo—she was their ally.”
Sergei didn’t push the point any further. He already knew what he needed to know. “That’s something my people are trying to determine. And we will.” The sunset fire no longer burned in the western sky. The stars were competing against the colder flames of the téni-lamps, and the evening chill was settling around the city. Sergei shivered and rose from his chair. His knee joints cracked and protested at the movement; he grunted with the effort. Sergei could still feel the ache in his muscles and the lingering bruises from when he’d flung himself over Audric in the temple.
Old men, indeed . . .
Petros must have been watching (and undoubtedly listening, as well) through the cracks of the temple doors; as soon as Sergei stood the doors opened and an e’téni attendant hurried to him with his overcloak. He could see Petros standing in the gloom of the corridor beyond. “I should be checking on Audric, Archigos,” Sergei said as he shrugged on the woolen folds. “If you find someone with the skills we were discussing, please bring him or her to the palais immediately.”
“I’ll stop by myself in a turn of the glass or so,” Kenne said. “Petros will have my supper ready now, but I’ll come afterward. To see what I can do.”
“Thank you, Archigos,” Sergei told him. “I will see you then, perhaps.”
As he walked away from the temple, he wondered whether his message had reached Brezno yet, and what reception it might have found.
Allesandra ca’Vörl
“YOUR BOY’S SHOT was as good as any I could make,” Fynn declared.
Allesandra doubted that. Jan might not have the bulk and power of Fynn’s muscular frame. He might not be able to wield the heavy weight of water-hardened stee
l someone like Fynn could manage with ease, but the boy could ride like no one else and he had an eye with an arrow that very few could match. Allesandra was certain that neither Fynn nor anyone else there could have hit, much less brought down, the stag from the back of a galloping horse.
But it seemed best to simply nod, give Fynn a false smile, and agree. It was safest, but conceding the falsehood still hurt when her pride in her son made her want to object. She stored it with the other hurts and insults Fynn and her vatarh had given her over the years. The pile in her mind was already mountainous. “Indeed, Brother. He’s been taught well in Magyaria. Pauli was famous for his horseback archery when he was young; it would seem that Jan has acquired that ability from his vatarh.”
“It was lucky I was there to take the final shot, though, or the stag would have escaped.”
Allesandra smiled again, though she knew it was neither luck nor fortune, only Jan demonstrating that he knew better than to entirely eclipse the presence of the Hïrzg. A political move, as adroit as any she might have made.
The two of them were walking along the eastern balcony of the Stag Fall Palais—as private as one could be within the estate. Gardai stood at stiff attention where the balcony turned to the north and south, their stoic avoidance of the Hïrzg and A’Hïrzg obvious as they stared outward; from the windows left open to catch the evening breeze, they could hear the murmuring of the guests at the table they’d just left. Allesandra could pick out Jan’s voice as he laughed at something Semini said.
She looked eastward, toward the evening mist rising in its soft, slow tide from the valleys toward the steep slopes in which the palais was nestled. The tops of the evergreens below them were wrapped in strands of white cloud, though the wind-scoured and treeless peaks above remained swaddled in sun that sparked from the granite cliffs and the clinging snowbanks. Somewhere hidden in the mist below, a waterfall burbled and sang.
“It’s truly beautiful here,” Allesandra said. “I never realized that when I was here as a girl. Great-Vatarh Karin picked a perfect location: gorgeous, and perfectly defensible. No army could ever take Stag Fall if it were well-defended.”
Fynn nodded, though he didn’t seem to be looking at the landscape. Instead, he was fiddling with the brocaded cuff of his sleeve. “I asked you to walk with me so we could speak alone, Sister,” he said.
“I thought as much. We ca’Vörls rarely do anything without ulterior motives, do we?” she said. A quick smile played with her lips. “What did you want to say to me, little brother?”
He grinned—briefly—at that, the thick scar on his cheek twitching with the motion. “You never knew me when I was little.”
“There was good reason for that.” Yes, that hurt was at the very heart of the mountain inside, the seed from which it had all grown. . . .
“Or a bad one. I didn’t understand then, Allesandra, why Vatarh left you in Nessantico for so long. After he finally told me about you, I always wondered why Vatarh let my sister languish in another country, one he so obviously hated.”
“Do you understand now?” she asked, then continued before he could respond. “Because I still don’t. I always waited for him to apologize to me, or to explain. But he never would. And now . . .”
“I don’t want to be your enemy, Allesandra.”
“Are we enemies, Fynn?”
“That’s what I’m asking you. I would like to know.”
Allesandra waited before answering. The marble railing of the balcony was damp under her hand, the swirls of pale blue in the milky stone varnished by dew. “Are you thinking that if our positions were reversed, that if I’d been named Hïrzgin by Vatarh, then you would consider me your enemy?” she asked carefully.
He made a face, his hand sweeping through the cool air as if he were swiping at an annoying insect. “So many words . . .” He sighed loudly and she could hear his irritation in it. “You make speeches that slip in my ears and make my own words twist their meanings, Allesandra. I’ve never been someone able to fence with words and speeches—it’s not one of my skills. It wasn’t one of Vatarh’s either. Vatarh always said exactly what he thought: no more, no less, and what he didn’t want someone to know, he didn’t say at all. I asked you a simple enough question, Allesandra: are you my enemy? Please do me the courtesy of giving me a plain, unadorned answer.”
“No,” she answered firmly, and then shook her head. “Fynn, only an idiot would answer you with anything other than ‘No, we’re not enemies.’ You know that, too, despite your protestations. You may be many things, but you’re not that simple, and I’m not that foolish to fall into so obvious a trap. What’s the real question you’re asking?”
Fynn gave an exasperated huff, slapping his hand on the railing. She could feel the impact of his hand shivering the rail. “There . . . There are people . . .” He stopped, taking a long audible breath. When he released it, she could see it cloud before his face. He touched the plain golden band that encircled his head. “Vatarh told me before he died that there were whispers among the chevarittai and the higher téni of the Faith. Some of them opposed his naming of me as the A’Hïrzg. They don’t like my temper, or they say I’m too . . . stupid.” He spat out the word, as if it tasted sour on his tongue. “Some of them wanted you to have that title, or wanted someone else entirely to take the band of the Hïrzgai.”
“Did Vatarh tell you who was doing the whispering? Where did it come from?” Allesandra asked. She had to ask the question. She shivered a little, hoping he hadn’t noticed. “Did Vatarh tell you who had said this?”
But Fynn only shook his head. “No. No names. Just . . . that there were those who would oppose me. If I find them . . .” He took a long breath in through his nose, and his face went hard. “I will take them down.” He looked directly at her. “I don’t care who they are, and I don’t care who I have to hurt.”
She faced away from him so he could not see her face, looking at the fog drifting among the pines just below. Good. Because I know some of them, and they know me. . . . “You can’t punish rumors, Fynn,” she said. “You can’t put chains around gossip and imprison it, any more than you can capture the mists.”
“I don’t think Vatarh was deceived by mists.”
“Then what do you want of me, little brother?”
That was what he’d wanted her to ask. She could see it in his face, in the dimming light of the sky. “At the Besteigung,” he began, then stopped to put his hand atop hers on the railing. It did not feel like an affectionate gesture. “You’re the one that everyone looks to. You’re the one who could have been Hïrzgin had Vatarh not changed his mind. The ca’-and-cu’ still like you, and many of them think that Vatarh did wrong by you. The rumors always circulate around you, Allesandra. You. I want to stop them; I want them to have no reason at all to exist. So—at the Besteigung—I want you, and Pauli and Jan also, to take a formal oath of loyalty to the throne. In public, so everyone will hear you say the words.”
They would only be words, she wanted to tell him, with as much meaning as my saying now “No, Fynn, I’m not your enemy,” Words and oaths mean nothing: to know that, all you need do is look at history . . . But she smiled at him gently and patted his hand. Perhaps he really was that simple, that naive? “Of course we’ll do that,” she told him. “I know my place. I know where I should be, and I know where I want to be in the future.”
Fynn nodded. His hand moved away from hers. “Good,” he said, and the relief sang a high note in his voice. “Then we will expect that.” We . . . She heard the royal plural in his voice, all unconscious, and it made her lips press tightly together. “I like your son,” he said unexpectedly. “He’s a bright one—like you, Allesandra. I’d hate to think he was involved in any plots against me, but if he was, or if his family was . . .” His face tightened again. “The air’s chilly and damp out here, Allesandra. I’m going inside.” Fynn left her, returning to the warmth of the palais’ common room. Allesandra stood at the railing for several m
ore minutes before following him, watching until the mists were nearly level with her and the world below had vanished into gloom and cloud.
She thought of being Hïrzgin, and it came to her that the High Seat in Brezno would never have satisfied her, even if it had been hers. It was a hard realization, but she knew now that it was in Nessantico that she’d been most happy, that she’d felt most at home.
“I know my place, Brother,” she whispered into the hush of the fog. “I do. And I will have it.”
Nico Morel
NICO HEARD TALIS SPEAKING in the other room, even though Matarh had gone to the square to get bread.
Matarh had kissed him and told him to nap for a bit, saying that she’d be back before supper. But he hadn’t been able to sleep, not with the sounds of the people in the street just outside the shutters of his window, not with the sun peeking through the cracks between the boards. He was too old for naps now anyway. Those were for children, and he was becoming a young man. Matarh had told him that, too.
Nico threw the covers aside and padded softly across the room. He leaned forward just enough that he could see past the edge of the scarred, warped door that never closed tightly—making sure he didn’t touch it, since he knew the hinges would screech a rusty alarm. Through the crack between door and jamb, he could see Talis. He was bent over the table that Matarh used to prepare meals. A shallow bowl was sitting on the table, and Nico squinted in an effort to see it better: incised animals danced along the rim, and the bowl had the same hue as the weathered bronze statue of Henri VI in Oldtown Square. Matarh didn’t have a metal bowl, at least none that Nico had ever noticed; the animals carved into it were strange, too: a bird with a head like a snake’s; a scaled lizard with a long snout full of snarled teeth. Talis poured water from Matarh’s pitcher into the bowl, then untied a leather pouch from his belt and shook a reddish, fine powder onto his palm. He dusted the powder into the water as if he were salting food. He gestured with his hand over the bowl as if smoothing something away, then spoke words in the strange language that he sometimes spoke when he was dreaming at night, cuddled with Nico’s matarh in their bed.
