by S L Farrell
“So the Numetodo Ambassador helped you?” Allesandra also remembered Karl ca’Vliomani, who was so obviously smitten with Archigos Ana, although she seemed to treat him as no more than a good friend. Allesandra had not cared much for him, or for the Numetodo, who scorned and mocked her own strong beliefs, who believed in no gods at all. They believed that the world had always existed, that it was impossibly old and that natural processes could explain everything within it—the sheer illogic and arrogance of their philosophy annoyed Allesandra. “That won’t please Archigos Semini . . . or Archigos Kenne either, I would guess.”
“It was an act of friendship and nothing else.”
“Archigos Ana once told me that every act reflects on the faith of the person who commits it,” Allesandra told him. “Are you a Numetodo now, Sergei?”
He shook his head. “No. I believe in Cénzi as strongly as I ever did.”
She wondered if that statement was simply an artful deflection, but let it go. “Can Kraljiki Audric truly rule the Holdings? Can Archigos Kenne hold the a’téni together as Ana did?”
“Time alone will give you that answer, A’Hïrzg,” he responded.
“Then indulge me with speculation.”
Sergei lifted a shoulder. “Archigos Kenne is . . . weak. Not just physically, but also when it comes to confrontation. He is a good, moral, and faithful man, but he’s a follower and not a leader. To his credit, that defect is one that he knows and acknowledges. The Concordance of A’Téni elected him Archigos because of it; they didn’t want another strong leader like Ana. As for Kraljiki Audric . . . well, he’s but a boy, and in ill health. I’m sure you have your own people giving you reports, but I suspect they haven’t told you the full story.”
He leaned forward, setting down the teacup and plate silently on the table. She could see her distorted reflection in his nose. “Audric has gone mad,” he said softly. He tapped an index finger to his forehead. “How fully, I don’t know. I saw it myself before he sent me to the Bastida, and afterward my friends in court and with the Faith sent me word. He holds conversations with the painting of his great-matarh Marguerite; he puts the painting at his right hand in court as if she were his councillor.”
“Truly?” Allesandra gestured, and one of the servants hurried forward to refill the teacups. She watched the golden liquid steam in her cup. “And no one says anything?”
“Kralji have sometimes acted strangely, and sometimes punished those who point out their strangeness. That’s happened often enough in Nessantico’s long history; we could both recite the names, I’m sure. And if it doesn’t seem to directly affect the Holdings—” he lifted a shoulder, “—then it’s best to keep such observations to yourself . . . and to be careful. I’m sure that’s what Sigourney ca’Ludovici is doing: she wants the throne, and she watches for the opportunity to seize it. Most of the Council of Ca’ would back her; the Sun Throne is hers if Audric dies or must be . . . removed. Either one of those is a very likely scenario in the next few months, I suspect.”
Allesandra nodded. She lifted the teacup and blew over the fragrant surface, sipping carefully. Neither of them said anything for several breaths. “Why did you come here, Regent?” she asked finally. “I know what you told my son and the Archigos. But I think there’s more.”
He glanced over his shoulder at the gardai and said nothing. “They’re my people,” she told him. “My own handpicked gardai who have been with me since I returned to Firenzcia. I trust them implicitly. I’m sure you had men under your command whose integrity you trusted in such a manner.”
“It’s been my experience that nearly everyone has a flaw that can be exploited. I’ve learned that the fewer ears hear something, the more chances there are that statements won’t be repeated.”
She waited, sipping her tea; he rubbed at his nose, smearing her reflection.
“As you wish,” he said at last. “Nessantico and the Holdings have been my life, A’Hïrzg. That’s not a loyalty I can or will give up. My sincerest wish is to see the Holdings restored to what it was when Kraljica Marguerite was on the throne. I would like to see you in Nessantico, as Kraljica Allesandra. You could be the Kraljica that Nessantico requires now.”
Even though she’d been expecting the words, she still found herself drawing a quick inward breath. You see, Vatarh? You see? This is the legacy you wanted, and this is the promise you gave up when you abandoned me for Fynn. The emotional depth of the internal response surprised her; she could feel the warmth of it spreading upward from her chest to her face. She struggled not to show any of it to ca’Rudka. “Wishes are cheap,” she told him. “We can wish for all we want. What we can accomplish is quite another thing.”
“Yet if two people’s wishes coincide, and they coincide with those of other people, and if those people are powerful enough . . .” He smiled, folding his fingers together on the lace tablecloth as if he were praying. “Would that be your wish as well, A’Hïrzg? Can you see a ca’Vörl on the Sun Throne? I know your vatarh had that vision.”
He knows. “Let’s put that aside for the moment, Regent. There are other issues if this is something we would pursue—and I’m not saying that it is. What of the Faith? Who would be the Archigos in this restored Holdings you envision: Semini, or Kenne?”
“Despite what I said about his faults, I like Archigos Kenne. He is my friend, his faith is true, and as I said, he’s a good man.”
“He may be all of that, but he is not a friend of Firenzcia and, like Ana, would coddle the heretics. And Semini is my friend.”
Sergei made a contemplative sound deep in his throat. “There are rumors, A’Hïrzg, that he may be more.”
She flushed hotly at that. The gardai behind the Regent moved his hand from his side to the hilt of his sword, but she shook her head to him. “You speak too freely about rumors and lies, Regent. You can’t treat me like a girl or a royal hostage anymore. You’re on my land, and it’s your life at stake, not mine. If this is the way you spoke to Audric, then it’s no wonder he no longer wanted you to be Regent.”
He bowed his head, but there was no apology in his hawkish eyes. “My apologies, A’Hïrzg. My stay in the Bastida has, I’m afraid, scrubbed away both my diplomacy and my patience. But those rumors and lies do concern me, if we are to work together.”
“The Archigos already has a wife. That’s all that needs to be said, and all the answer you’ll receive. As to Archigos Kenne . . .” Allesandra remembered Kenne ca’Fionta also: a gentle man, a quiet man, one who was always an effective second-in-command but never questioned anything asked of him or spoke up for himself. She could not imagine him as Archigos. Ana could be gentle and affectionate also, but there was hard bone and steel underneath her velvet, and you did not want to be her enemy. Allesandra wasn’t certain what lay underneath ca’Fionta’s exterior, but she suspected that Sergei’s assessment was correct.
But Semini—Semini could be as adamantine and strong as Ana. “If you want Firenzcia’s help,” she continued, “if you want the help of our war-téni, then it will be Archigos Semini, not Archigos Kenne, who reunites the Faith. Kenne needn’t be killed; if he could be convinced to renounce his title for the good of the Faith, perhaps even to become the a’téni of one of the cities. I suspect a friend could convince another friend of the sanity of that course. I hope so, for Kenne’s sake.”
Allesandra settled back in her chair. Sergei, for the first time, had a look of uncertainty in his face, and she was surprised by the strength of the enjoyment that gave her. She wondered if that was how a Kraljica or a Hïrzgin often felt, if that was one of the gifts of power. A gift, or perhaps a trap for those who fell into the thrall of that feeling. “I know what I bring to you, Regent,” she said to him. “I bring you my name and my genealogy. I bring you the unmatched army of Firenzcia through my son. I bring you the fearsome war-téni of the true Concénzia Faith through Archigos Semini. I bring you Miscoli, Sesemora, and the Magyarias, who answer to Firenzcia. I bring all that to
the table. What is it that you bring us, Regent?”
He didn’t answer quickly. His right forefinger stroked the lip of the teacup before him, and he seemed to be staring down at the pattern of the leaves in the bottom. “I bring you knowledge,” he said. “I know the Garde Kralji and the Garde Civile and the strengths and weaknesses of their commanders. I know Nessantico; I know all her paths and all her secrets. There are those in the Garde Civile and the Garde Kralji who will answer if I call them. There are those among the ca’-and-cu’ who will do the same. There are chevarittai who will come to me if I summon them. It may be, A’Hirzg, that I can deliver the Sun Throne to you with as few lives lost as possible.”
“Why, if you could do all that, why isn’t it that you’re the Kraljiki yourself rather than a refugee?” she asked him, but gave him no time to respond. “And if you can do all this, what is it that you want in return?”
“Nothing,” he said, and Allesandra felt surprise lift her eyebrows. “Give me whatever reward you see fit. I do this for Nessantico only, to whom I have always pledged my life. I once protected Nessantico from Firenzcia’s aggression; now, I will give her to Firenzcia freely. Kraljica Marguerite believed in marriage as a way to reconcile opposing forces, and I believe the same, because the marriage of Nessantico to Firenzcia is what she needs now to survive.”
Pretty words, she wanted to say scoffingly. She wasn’t certain she believed the man at all. But Cénzi had brought the Regent to her, all unexpected, a gift she couldn’t refuse. “You are an intelligent, talented, and attractive young woman,” Archigos Ana had told her when news had reached Nessantico that her vatarh had named the infant Fynn as the A’Hirzg and refused to pay the ransom that Kraljiki Justi had demanded for her release. It had been less than a year into her cushioned and bejeweled imprisonment, and Allesandra had wept in bewilderment and fright. Ana—the enemy—had held her and comforted her, had stroked her hair and calmed her again. “I know Cénzi has a plan for you. I can feel it, Allesandra. There is a great part for you to play yet in life. . . .”
She would play that part. She would have what her vatarh had once promised her: the brilliant necklace of Nessantico. That was the reason that Sergei ca’Rudka had appeared now.
“We shall see, Regent ca’Rudka,” was all she told him now. “In the end, it will be as Cénzi wills. . . .”
Niente
NIENTE STOOD ON THE SLOPE of Karnor with Tecuhtli Zolin and his High Warriors, the city spread out below him, and he saw the vision he had glimpsed in the bowl.
The windows of the temple just below them were shattered, gouged-out eyes in the skull of a ruined building. Soot blackened the stones around them, greasy smoke still rising through them. The golden half-dome was broken, the gilded masonry fallen in. Fires flared skyward at a dozen places in the city, brighter than the setting sun.
The attack had gone quickly and easily. As soon as they had glimpsed the heights of the Easterners’ great island Karnmor, Niente had called together the nahualli who could control the wind and the sky, and they had conjured a wall of dense fog to conceal the Tehuantin fleet as they approached. The fog bank wrapped them in gray-white air and muffled the sounds of their preparations. By the time the spell-fog failed and drifted away in wisps, the Yaoyotl—flying the eagle banner of Tehuantin—was already at the mouth of Karnor Harbor, its sister ships spread out in two great wings to either side. Karnor Harbor was vast and deep, nested in cliffs of stony arms with the city perched far back, leagues away.
A hand of Holdings naval ships were stationed there, and they tacked to face the onslaught even as fishing and pleasure vessels fled for safety. Niente had to admire the bravery of the Holdings captains: in the face of a vastly superior force they didn’t flee but turned to confront them directly with their blue-and-gold flags fluttering atop the masts. Still, it had been slaughter. The sea wind was behind the Tehuantin fleet and the Holdings ships had to beat slowly into the wind. The war-téni aboard the Holdings galleons had little time to prepare their spells—perhaps more powerful than those of the nahualli, but slow to create, and Niente had pushed his nahualli all that day. Their spell-sticks were full, the black sands already prepared. The spells of the nahualli had been able to deflect most of the arcing fire of the war-téni away from the ships, though the ship alongside the Yaoyotl took a direct hit that fanned into a monstrous blossom of fire and destruction along the decks, sending dozens of men screaming into the cold swells and setting the ship aflame and dead in the water, so that the ships behind had to tack suddenly to avoid it.
Tecuhtli Zolin was on deck, screaming orders from the forecastle; the Tehuantin ships answered with the massive bolts tipped with capsules of black sand and flung from catapults on the decks: the engines had flung the sputtering missiles toward the defenders of Karnmor; the capsules, enchanted with fire spells, exploded on impact, sending boards to splinters, ripping and tearing bloody limbs from the unfortunate sailors. The Nessantican ships had faltered, their sails afire, or drooping as they lost the wind under the assault. Tecuhtli Zolin shrieked orders and a second round of fire missiles raked them.
They left the defenders behind as nothing more than hulks burning down to the waterline, and the fleet advanced into the inner harbor of the city. The soldiers of Karnor massed there under command of a few horsed chevarittai, but again Tecuhtli Zolin called his orders and the catapults flung their awful messengers into their midst, the explosions trembling the steep hills on which Karnor was built and starting fires among the buildings. The soldiers and the nahualli shouted in victory as they approached the harbor, the sound itself terrifying as swords clashed against shields and spell-staffs clattered. Niente shouted with them, his own throat raw from yelling and the smoke of battle. He saw residents fleeing through the streets in unorganized mobs, streaming up and away from the sudden clash of battle in the harbor as gangplanks boomed down and disgorged the Tehuantin soldiers. They charged out screaming, their tattooed faces furious and joyful at the same time. Tecuhtli Zolin led them, his curved sword flashing in the sunlight and his voice calling challenge to the waiting enemy. Niente and his nahualli rushed after them, and their spell-staffs gleamed white as they flung war-bolts into the ranks of the soldiers. Niente’s own stave had been quickly depleted, and he had taken the bundle of eagle claws lashed to his back, turning the ivory tubes to activate the contact fire spell and tossing them high over the front ranks of the soldiers to explode in their midst. Once, a wounded Nessantican soldier had risen up from the ground as he stepped over him. Luckily, the man was weak from his wounds, and Niente was able to step away from the wobbly thrust of the sword. He’d taken his knife from his belt and slashed the keen edge across the man’s exposed throat before the soldier could recover. Hot blood had spattered Niente’s hand, and the man gave a gurgling cry as he collapsed for a final time. A deep knife thrust to the side of the man’s neck had finished him, and Niente had risen to find the battle nearly over, with the defenders retreating into the city, pursued by the Tehuantin.
By the time the sun had set—red and sullen through the smoke of the burning city—Karnor was theirs, what was left of it. Below him, Niente could hear faint screaming and wailing as the Tehuantin sacked and plundered the city and killed those they found there. Far below, in the harbor, the holds of the Tehuantin ships were being stuffed with the largesse of the city.
Niente stood with Tecuhtli Zolin and the Tehuantin High Warriors Citlali and Mazatl. Nearby, guarded by tattooed warriors, the commandant and three chief offiziers of the defenders knelt bound and silenced. The prisoners stared at the fire that the nahualli had built at Niente’s direction, and at the flat altar stone from the Karnmor Temple that Niente had ordered dragged here to the summit of Mount Karnmor.
Four eagle claws, their horns filled with black sand, had been placed in the center of the altar stone. They stared at those most of all.
“These Easterners,” Tecuhtli Zolin commented, “are poor fighters. They ran like frightened childr
en.” He glanced back to the prisoners with a scowl. The Tecuhtli wore his armor, the leather-backed bamboo notched here and there by an enemy blade, the supple tubes rattling softly as he moved. The armor was spattered and stained with blood, though little of it appeared to be his. The sun was fully down now, and the moon had risen in the east—Zolin glanced that way. “Axat won’t even accept the offering of these incompetents.”
Niente remembered the battles around Lake Malik, and shook his head. “Tecuhtli, they were caught unawares and unprepared for us. That won’t happen again. The whispers of what happened here will come to their Kraljiki and the commanders of their army. Perhaps . . .” He hesitated, not wanting to say the next words. “Perhaps it would be best if we take what we have gained here and return home.”
