by V. Briceland
A horn’s rich cry resonated from the palace. It seemed to shimmer through the air as it drowned out Cassaforte’s last few evening noises. The clop-clop of donkey hooves on the pavement, the cries of the gondoliers on the canals, and the friendly babble of the crowds all ceased at its musical tone. Risa’s playfulness halted as well. The rite of fealty had been set into motion; it was time once more to think of herself as a sober young citizen, not a child.
Each of the cazas belonging to Cassaforte’s seven great families had been built upon islands around the city’s coast, Risa knew. The complex of bridges and canals that united them to the mainland, however, made it difficult to tell where the seven cazas began and the capital city left off. The cazas were separate from Cassaforte, yet of it, all at once.
From the farthest caza east, well beyond sight, came the silvery answering cry of the oldest family of the Seven. “Sweet Caza Cassamagi,” breathed Risa, enchanted by the sound, as she was every night. Instinctively she reached for her younger brother’s hand. If it was the two gods’ will to separate her from Petro during the ceremony the next day, it might be the last evening they spent together for years to come.
Caza Portello, just east of their own island, was the second oldest caza in all of Cassaforte. As the call of Cassamagi’s horn swept across the darkening sky, Portello’s red and white silks climbed the flagpole. Cassamagi was known for its research into the discipline of enchantments; Portello was known far and wide for its architecture. Its walls rose high and proud, and its enchantment-strengthened bridges and spires rivaled Cassaforte’s royal palace in grace and delicacy. When its colors reached the top of the pole, an answering cry, from its tenor horn, poured from Portello’s heights.
At the cue, Ero began pulling the rope that would take Divetri’s blue and green banner into the skies. He grinned, as he always did, to see the family’s colors flying against the deepening twilight and to hear the silks snapping crisply in the sea breezes. Then, with two strides of his muscular legs, he crossed to the pedestal. He removed the large domed lid, green-blue with patina, and placed it on the ground. A brass horn lay atop the purple cushion within. Like a hunting horn, its tube was coiled upon itself until, after three turns, it flared into a bell.
Ero grasped the instrument and pointed it up to the heavens. He faced toward King Alessandro’s palace. Risa watched with admiration as he took in a massive breath. Chest enlarged and feet braced, Ero blew into the Divetri horn.
Though she had heard the same velvet peal every evening of her life, its beauty and force always astonished her. As the single note grew in volume, it seemed to cast out a cord, invisible yet sparkling, that tied together Caza Divetri’s inhabitants. It tightened around them all, then flew out in the direction of the palace itself, over the city and its buildings. To Risa it was almost a tangible sensation, that cord. She wondered for the first time if anyone else ever felt it. The others, however, seemed merely attentive, not enchanted. Why was it so vivid for her?
The velvety sound faded, though everyone remained still for another moment. The ancient rite of fealty had been completed. For another night, as it had for centuries, Caza Divetri would stand.
They listened for horns to sound from Catarre and Buonochio, book makers and artists, then from Piratimare and Dioro, ship builders and crafters of weapons. Seven cazas, united through this nightly rite with the country’s most sacred relics and the symbols of the king—the Olive Crown and Scepter of Thorn.
After the cazas’ loyalty had been proclaimed for all the city to hear, the palace hornsman played one last, long note. It lingered, then vanished into the sunset.
As the moment dissipated, everyone perceptibly relaxed. The craftsmen began to file out. The last to leave, of course, was Cousin Fredo, who lingered over his prayers to the god Muro and Muro’s sister, the goddess Lena. Neither of the two moons adorning the night sky seemed to notice his muttered entreaties.
When the family was alone once more, Giulia ran her hand through her son’s hair. “My youngest have grown up too swiftly,” she sighed. Risa disagreed. She was not being allowed to grow up quickly enough.
“I’m not grown up,” Petro asserted. “I’m only eleven. Next year, though!”
Ero laughed. “You’re old enough, my boy. Old enough. Did you enjoy your last evening? Yes?”
“Papa.” Petro suddenly sounded frightened. He was still so young, thought Risa. Perhaps he was only now realizing that tomorrow he would be taken from the caza to live with the Penitents or with the Children, depending upon whose blessing he received. “What would happen if you fell ill after tomorrow? Who would blow our horn at sunset?”
From behind, Risa pounced on him and tickled him lightly. Petro squealed. The solemnity of the rite had faded, and she once more felt playful. “No one!” she growled. “No one would blow the horn or raise the banners, and then demons would devour the caza and it would no longer be ours!”
As she and her brother laughed, her father shook his head. His curls glinted in the dancing light of the raised brazier, whose flames illuminated the family’s banner every night. “That won’t happen, Petro. You know very well that Romeldo would come from the insula to take over my duties until I felt better. He’s the oldest, and heir to the caza. Remember how I had the sun sickness once when you were younger? He came then.”
“And what if Romeldo is sick?”
“Are you worried that we’ll fall to pieces when you leave tomorrow?”
Petro hesitated. “No. Well, maybe.”
“When you are big enough,” said Ero affectionately, kneeling down and grabbing his son’s nose with his fingers, “you may perform the rite and keep us all safe in our caza.”
“I’m older than Petro!” Risa protested, not for the first time. “I could perform the rite!”
Without even looking at his wife, Ero replied just as Risa knew he would. “The protection of a caza is not the responsibility of women.”
“Now, Ero,” said Giulia, her gentle voice a contrast to his stubborn tones. It was an old argument between them. “You well know my good kinswoman Dana raises the flags as cazarra of Buonochio. Buonochio’s cazarra has always done so, since the house’s founding. In the past, Cassamagi … ”
Ero raised a hand. “In Caza Divetri, the rite of fealty is the cazarro’s responsibility. It has always been so, and will always be.” He got to his feet and winked once more at his daughter. “Women are good for other things, eh? Bewitching men’s hearts, primarily. You’ll learn.”
He grinned broadly at his wife, who shook her head while returning the smile. “By Lena, you are an old-fashioned bull,” was her only retort. Still talking, they moved toward the door that led down into the residence.
Risa stared after them, defiance dancing in her heart. “I am good for many more things than bewitching men’s hearts,” she said, voicing the opinion she dared not utter in front of her father. “After tomorrow I’ll prove it.”
“I don’t think you could bewitch a toad, with your duck nose!” Petro cried gleefully. Before she could catch him, he dashed away after their parents, laughing at the top of his lungs.
2
—
It frustrates us to no end, my liege, to report that we are unable to replicate the enchantments of the barbarian city, Cassaforte.
A married couple imbibing wine from one of its goblets is likely to remain faithful until the end of days, and anyone reading from one of its conjured books—though why anyone should wish to is a mystery—retains the knowledge permanently.
Even their symbols of monarchy, the Olive Crown and the
Scepter of Thorn, are enchanted in such a way that none but the true heir can lay hands upon them without dire consequence.
Sire, the people of Cassaforte are devils in human form.
—The spy Gustophe Werner, in a private letter to
Baron Fr
iedrich van Wiestel
Who do you think will grant you their blessing, the Children or the Penitents?” Petro asked. They lay upon the matted floor of Risa’s own chambers, staring out at the night sky.
“It’s the god or the goddess who grants the blessing during the Scrutiny, silly,” she said automatically. Every six years, during the alignment of the two moons with the twin constellations, every child of the Seven and Thirty between the ages of eleven and sixteen went through the Ritual of Scrutiny. There they were chosen by the moon goddess to study at the Insula of the Penitents of Lena, or by her brother, the moon god, for education at the Insula of the Children of Muro.
“You know what I mean! Which insula will I end up at?” Petro’s question had been on her own mind for some days now. The differences between the two insulas were, as far as she could tell, minimal. What mattered was that her life would be completely new and wide open at either one of them. “Mama and Papa were trained by the goddess’ Penitents,” Petro continued. “So won’t we be blessed by them too?”
“Romeldo and Vesta are just as much their children as we are, and they were both chosen by the god,” Risa pointed out. Her older brother and the younger of her two older sisters had been highly studious, one of the defining traits of those chosen to study with the Children of Muro. Their oldest sister Mira, however, had followed in their parents’ footsteps; she was selected to join the insula of the Penitents of Lena, where she was now a master glass maker in its workshops. Many of the bright new colors of sheet glass that the caza had been using in its work were Mira’s artistic innovations.
From a plate of snacks between them, Petro plucked a cracker spread with fresh honey. “I’m going to miss Fita’s cooking.”
“I’m going to miss Mama and Papa.”
“I’m going to miss my room.”
“I’m going to miss my studio,” said Risa, thinking of her workroom next to her father’s workshop, far away from the furnaces and hot glass workers. “At the insula I’ll never have a private workspace until I’m a master craftsman.”
“You’re going to miss Emil,” Petro teased, licking honey from his fingers and reaching for another of Fita’s crackers.
“I am not.” Risa kicked her heels up into the air. “I think you’ll be chosen by the Penitents,” she said at last, popping a nut-stuffed fig into her mouth. “Don’t you?”
There was a long pause before Petro spoke again. “If I am, I hope you are too.”
“Oh, Petro.” Risa felt a sudden rush of affection for her little brother. He was only eleven. Though they often played and teased as equals, at times she knew that the five years between them made her an adult in his eyes. “I hope so too. Just remember, you have family at both insulas. Romeldo and Mira and Vesta love you too.”
“But I hardly know them,” Petro said in a very small voice. “They were gone when I was little. You’ve always been here.” He reached for the plate.
“That’s enough honey for you,” she told him, taking it away. “You’ll never sleep.”
“I think you’ll be chosen by the Penitents, too. You’re artistic.” He gestured to the cabinet in which Risa kept the finest of her own works. The cabinet once displayed the mosaics Divetri children had created during their early training in the glass arts, but of late these had been replaced by a number of beautiful round bowls Risa had created in the Divetri furnaces. Unlike the other objects created in her father’s workshop, however, her bowls were not blown from hot glass. Nor were they pieced together bit by bit and held with cement or channeled lead, like the mosaics and windows for which her mother was famous. They were, in fact, altogether different from anything else the Divetri family had produced throughout the centuries. Some had geometric shapes in simple and colorful patterns; others were more complex renderings of glass cut into floral shapes and pieced together before being melted and fused in the furnaces. They were uniquely her own, and Risa was proud of it.
She smiled, now, at her brother. “Do you really think I’m artistic?” When he nodded, she hugged him tightly.
“All you need to do is learn the container enchantments and you’ll be a junior craftsman. I’ve got a lot more to learn than you,” he said.
“I want to learn a lot more than container enchantments,” Risa said, feeling the excitement build inside her once more. “More than protection enchantments, too.”
“But those are the skills the insulas teach glass workers.” Petro stretched his mouth wide in a yawn. “Bowls and goblets have container enchantments. Windows have protection enchantments. Even I know that.” Given that the natural purpose of a window is to protect people from the elements, Giulia’s creations of lead and glass were reinforced with insula-learned enchantments that protected those within the caza from outside harm. No Divetri window had ever been broken or broached since its creation, not by a hammer or crossbow bolt or even one of Petro’s many pigskin balls.
“Yes, you’re right,” Risa acknowledged. “But it’s just so boring! I can’t believe objects can only hold one kind of enchantment, that’s all.”
“Enchantments only work on an object’s primary purpose. That’s what Papa says.”
Slightly frustrated at not being able to explain what she meant, Risa struggled for words. “Catarre’s books are enchanted to aid learning, which is a book’s natural function, but if I used a book for, oh, I don’t know … ”
“To hit me over the head! Then it would be a weapon and you could put a Dioro attack enchantment on it,” Petro offered.
“You are so very silly!” She tickled him until he screeched with laughter.
They lay there, side by side, until their quickened breath subsided. “Risa?” Petro’s voice was small and quiet. “I’m scared.”
“I hope we’re chosen together, by the Penitents. If we are, I’ll watch over you, I promise,” she whispered in his ear. She was rewarded by his tight and sticky embrace. “Now, off to bed. Lena will never bless us if you’re snoring on your feet!” Together they rose from the matting and wiped cracker crumbs from their clothing.
“It’s the last night we’ll be sleeping here,” Petro said, just before he left the room.
Risa already knew that. Though she loved the caza and all the people within its walls, she was anxious to begin her new, real life. With hands that were almost shaking from excitement, she opened the doors to her balcony and gazed out.
The scent of night jasmine, blooming on the opposite bank of the western canal, filled her lungs. As she twisted the key that extinguished the wall lantern, she caught a glimpse of herself reflected in one of her bowls. This was the last night she would see herself wearing her own comfortable clothes—a child’s clothes. Tomorrow night, she would be wearing the robes of an insula initiate.
After tomorrow, she thought with a glow, everything will be very different.
3
—
It is a nation of nobodies, this Cassaforte—hopped-up peasants and tradesmen who, for no discernible reason, have assumed the responsibilities of aristocracy while shedding none of the trappings of their less-than-humble beginnings.
—Comte William DeVane, Travels Sundry &
Wide Beyond the Azurite Channel
The yawn that Risa let loose threatened to split her head wide open. So gaping was it that she wouldn’t have been surprised if someone had attempted to chuck pistachios inside (as children would be doing with oversized Pulcinella heads at the street fairs later that day). “What time is it?” she asked, as Fita pulled and prodded her down the stairs outside their residence.
“Five o’clock.” The housekeeper was as grim at this early hour as at any other, Risa noticed.
“In the morning?”
“The kitchen maids are awake and at work much earlier than this,” Fita informed her charge, with another poke at her spine.
Risa was barel
y able to see the steps. The housekeeper had yanked her out of bed without any ceremony whatsoever—no sweet rolls, no early morning hot milk spiced with kaffè, not even enough time to wash her face, comb her hair, or make a quick use of the chamber pot. “I’m not a kitchen maid, though.”
It was, as usual, completely the wrong thing to say. “That the day should come when a cazarrina should tell me to my face that she’s better than me!” clucked Fita, fussing and fretting over Risa’s nightgown as they descended.
“That’s not what I—! No, never mind.” Risa decided that mustering an argument would take too much effort. The sheer sensation of her bare feet slapping against the stone was jarring her awake, bit by bit. Though the early morning sky was still the color of cobalt, it was light enough that Risa could see a few of the workshop laborers carrying tightly bound bundles of wood to the furnaces. Smoke from their chimneys drifted toward the skies. The moons that had nestled so closely the night before had now parted ways and were sinking into the horizon, disappearing beyond the canals and the Azure Sea, sliver by silver sliver.
The kitchen maids might already have been up, but the birds were not. Birds had more sense. “You’re right. I’m sorry,” Risa mumbled. “I’m no better than a kitchen maid.”
“I should say not!” agreed Fita, suddenly grabbing Risa’s hand and yanking her from the bottom of the stairs in the direction of the lower bridge. “With your hair flying out every which way, you’re more like a scullery wench!”
“You didn’t give me any time to comb—!” Again, Risa had to calm herself. She tried a different tack. “Where are we going?”
“The Cazarro and the Cazarrina have summoned you.”
“For what purpose?”
“I do not presume to know the business of the Cazarro and the Cazarrina.” Fita’s lips pressed into a prim and pious line. “But I believe it has to do with receiving the king’s blessing.”
