by S L Farrell
That odor defined Nessantico to him.
Strangely, these weren’t the smells he remembered from his time in Nessantico before the Tehuantin. In those childhood memories, Oldtown was warm and comfortable, tasting of spices and the perfume of his matarh and the sweet odor of her sweat when he hugged her on hot summer days. It was the scent of the herbs his Westlander vatarh had used in the brass bowl he’d always carried. That Nessantico was bright and colorful, alive with hope and promise.
That Nessantico was utterly gone. That Nessantico had died when he’d been snatched away from his matarh.
“Absolute?” The call came from Ancel ce’Breton, one of the few Morellis he trusted implicitly, and one of the two people in the room with Nico. Ancel was gaunt, with a hollow-looking face patchworked with a scraggled dark beard, his long fingers scratching at his cheap linen bashta with cracked, dark fingernails—even more than Nico, he had the appearance of an ascetic. “What are your thoughts?”
“I think, Ancel, that this is a slap to Cénzi’s face,” he said without turning from the window. “I think that A’Téni ca’Paim’s soul will be torn and weighed by the soul-shredders and found wanting when she dies—and I hope that day comes soon. I think that once again the Concénzia Faith has shown its weakness and its degeneracy.”
He felt a gentle hand brush his shoulder: Liana. She pressed against him from behind and he felt the swell of her belly against his spine. “What do you want us to do?” she asked him. “Will you preach against this? Will we act?”
“I don’t know yet,” he told them. “I have to think, and I have to pray.” He turned away from the window. The anger was still there in the pit of his stomach, like banked coals that would never go out, but he smiled to Ancel and reached out to brush the hair from Liana’s wonderful face. “I will spend the night in meditation, and hopefully Cénzi will come to me with His answer by tomorrow.”
Ancel nodded. “I’ll let the others know, especially the téni who are with us. They’ll be ready to do whatever you ask of them, Absolute.”
“Thank you, Ancel. Without you, I don’t know what I’d do.” Nico saw the compliment lend momentary color to the man’s pale face. His eyes widened slightly as he bowed his head and gave Nico the sign of Cénzi.
“I am your servant as you are Cénzi’s,” Ancel said. “I’ll send in one of the others in a turn of the glass with your suppers.”
Nico inclined his head as the man closed the door behind him. He heard Ancel call out: “Erin, bring the Absolute and Liana their meals, please . . .” Now that they were alone, Liana rubbed her rounded stomach and finally came closer, pressing her body against his; he wrapped his arms around her body and kissed the top of her head and the glossy, dark-brown curly strands there. Not as dark as Rochelle’s hair, which was as black as midnight, but the same tight curls . . .
He shook away the memory. It was no good thinking of his sister Rochelle. She was lost, along with the rest of his past. Nico tightened his embrace on Liana, and could feel the nagging pull of healing ribs from where the Garde Kralji had kicked him two days ago: he’d been preaching to a crowd near Temple Square. They’d shoved him down on the soiled flags and circled around him, their booted feet lashing out as he covered his head and his followers screamed invectives and tried to pull the gardai away from him. “No!” he’d shouted to them. “Don’t worry! Cénzi will protect me!”
He’d wanted to use the Ilmodo then. He’d wanted to call down a storm of lightning on them, or set them afire, or sweep them away with a howling wind. He could have done any of those, easily. But he dared not—not in public, not with the téni watching. If they saw Nico use the Ilmodo, the magic of the téni, they would have invoked the laws of the Divolonté, the code by which the Concénzia Faith lived. By that code, as a defrocked téni, Nico was subject to the harshest penalties if he used Cénzi’s Gift again: he would have his hands cut off, his tongue ripped from his mouth so that he would never again use the Ilmodo. Only the téni were permitted to call upon the magic of the Second World.
And because Nico truly believed in the Divolonté, because he was a faithful téni, he obeyed. He had not used the Ilmodo for three years now, though he had been the best of them: the most talented, the strongest with the power. Even Archigos Karrol would have admitted that. Yet Nico took no pride in his prowess: it was Cénzi who had made him that way, Cénzi who had made him the Absolute. Not Nico himself.
The Faith had cast him out unfairly. They cast him out because they were jealous of him. They cast him out because they were afraid. They cast him out because he spoke the true, pure words of Cénzi and they felt it even as they denied it. They cast him out because they heard the power in his voice, and they saw how easily he gathered followers to him.
All the a’téni, even Archigos Karrol in Brezno, now allowed the Numetodo to spew their poison. They were not like Archigos Semini, who had set the bodies of Numetodo heretics swinging in their gibbets in Brezno Square. No, the current Archigos and his a’téni might complain about the godlessness and false beliefs of the Numetodo, but they permitted them to mock Cénzi with their own magics. The téni adulterated the Faith’s own magic by using Numetodo techniques themselves. They tolerated members of the Numetodo serving on the Council of Ca’ and whispering into the Kraljica’s ears. They listened to the nonsense the Numetodo spat out, about how all things in the world could be explained without resorting to Vucta or Cénzi or even the Moitidi. The Numetodo claimed that logic always trumped faith, and . . .
The
Faith
Said
Nothing.
The Numetodo infuriated Nico. Neither they nor the people of Nessantico herself saw how the sack of Nessantico by the Tehuantin—themselves heathens and heretics who worshiped false gods—had been Cénzi’s great punishment, a dire warning to them of what must happen when people turned their backs to Him.
Nico would show them. He would lead them along the correct path. They would hear his voice and heed him.
That was what Cénzi demanded of him. That was what he would do.
“Nico, where are you?” Liana was looking up at him with eyes the color of well-steeped tea—that was not like Rochelle either, who had pupils of the palest blue. Nico started, torn from his reverie. “Is He speaking to you?”
He shook his head down at her. “Not yet,” he told her. “But I know He’s close. I can feel His strength.” He hugged her and leaned down to kiss her mouth, which yielded softly under his pressure. He felt the flicker of her tongue against his and a tightness under his bashta.
“Then let me comfort you for now,” Liana whispered to him as they broke the embrace. “For a turn of the glass only . . .”
He touched her belly. “Should we . . . ?”
She laughed up at him. “I’m pregnant, my love, not made of glass. I won’t break.” She took his hand, and Nico allowed her to lead him over to the bed.
There, for a time, he lost himself in earthly passion and heat.
Brie ca’Ostheim
BRIE RAISED HER EYEBROW toward Rance ci’Lawli, her husband’s aide and thus the person responsible for the smooth running of Brezno Palais. “She’s the one, then?” she asked, pointing with her chin to the other room—a drawing rooms in the lower, public levels of Brezno Palais. Several of the court ladies were there, but one was seated on the floor with Elissa, Brie’s oldest child, the two of them working on an embroidery piece.
Rance nodded. He towered over Brie as he towered over most people: Rance was long and thin, as if Cénzi had taken a normal person and stretched him out. He was also extraordinarily ugly, with pocked skin, sunken eyes, and the pallor of boiled rags. His teeth seemed too big for his mouth. Yet he possessed a keen mind, seemed to remember everything and everybody, and Brie would have trusted him with her life as she trusted him now. “That’s Mavel cu’Kella,” he whispered. It sounded like the grumbling of a distant storm.
“I suspected as much; I noticed Jan paying a lot of atte
ntion to her at the ball last month. And you’re certain of her . . . condition?”
A nod. “Yes, Hïrzgin. I have my sources, and I trust them. There’s already some whispers among the staff, and when she starts obviously showing . . . Well, we can’t have that.”
“Does Jan know?”
Rance shook his elongated head. “No, Hïrzgin. I came to you first. After all . . .”
“Yes,” Brie sighed. “It’s not the first time.” She stared at Mavel through the sheer fabric of the curtain between the rooms. The woman was younger than Brie by a good ten years, dark-haired as most of Jan’s mistresses tended to be, and Brie envied the trim shape of her, though she imagined that she could see the slight swell of her belly under the sash of her tashta. After four children, Brie struggled to keep her own figure. Her breasts sagged from years of feeding hungry infants, her hips were wide and her stomach was crisscrossed with stretch marks. She was still holding much of the weight she’d gained with Eria, her youngest from almost three years ago. Mavel had the litheness that Brie had once possessed herself.
She wouldn’t keep that long. Not now.
“The cu’Kella family has some land holdings in Miscoli. She could stay with her relatives there during her confinement,” Rance said. “I’ve had dealings with her vatarh; he was supposed to be on the list to be named chevaritt, but now . . .” He shook his head. “That will have to wait. We’ll see if one of the minor Miscoli families might have a younger son they need to marry off, who would be willing to call the child his own. I’ll make the usual offer for the girl’s silence, and draw up the contracts for her vatarh to sign.”
Brie nodded. “Thank you, Rance. As always.”
He gave her an awkward half-bow. “It’s my pleasure to serve you, Hïrzgin. Send Vajica cu’Kella to my office, and I’ll talk with her. She’ll be gone by this evening. I’ll give the staff some convenient reason for her absence to counter the gossip.” He bowed again and left her. Brie took a breath before the curtain then entered the drawing room. The women there rose as one, curtsying to her as she approached, while Elissa grinned widely and ran to her. Mavel rose slowly, and Brie thought she saw a hesitation in her curtsy, and a cautious jealousy in her eyes. The young woman’s hand stayed on her stomach.
Brie crouched down to hug Elissa and gather her up in her arms, kissing her. “Are you enjoying yourself, my darling?” she asked Elissa, brushing back the stray strands of gold-brown hair that had escaped her braids.
“Oh, yes, Matarh,” Ellisa said. “Mavel and I have been embroidering a scene from Stag Fall. Would you like to see?”
“Certainly.” Brie kissed Elissa’s forehead and put her down on the floor. She glanced at Mavel, who dropped her gaze to the rug, with its black-and-silver patterns. “But I was just talking to Rance, and he has asked that Vajica cu’Kella come to his office. Some family news.” That brought the girl’s head up again, and now her eyes were large and apprehensive. “I’m sure you’ll excuse her,” Brie said to Elissa.
There was a moment of silence. Brie could see the other ladies of the court glancing at each other. Then Mavel curtsied again, hurriedly. “Thank you, Hïrzgin,” she said. “I’ll go immediately.” She gathered up her sewing, and left the room, brushing past Brie with the scent of almonds and flowers.
“Well, then,” Brie said to Elissa. “Let’s see that embroidery . . .” She smiled as she let Elissa take her hand, and the other women of the court smiled in return. Brie wondered, behind the smiles and idle talk, what they were really thinking.
But that, of course, she would never know.
Allesandra ca’Vörl
ALLESANDRA ATTENDED THE THIRD CALL service at the Old Temple, as was her usual pattern while in the city. The Admonition, delivered by A’Téni ca’Paim herself, was pleasingly stern, though Allesandra noticed that several of the téni attendants seemed to frown at her rhetoric against “those who would follow the teachings not of the Archigos of the Faith, but of self-styled disciples of Cénzi,” an obvious reference to Nico Morel and his followers.
She also found herself pleased to see Erik ca’Vikej at the service, seated several rows behind the royal pew reserved for the Kralji. Despite knowing that Sergei would be upset, and that A’Téni ca’Paim would undoubtedly include the incident in her weekly report to Archigos Karrol in Brezno, she had one of her attendants go back and invite ca’Vikej forward to sit in the pew with her. He bowed to her as he took his seat near her. His smile dazzled, his eyes sparkled. Allesandra felt again the pull of the man—the people she’d set to checking his background had already told her that he was one of those individuals that people would easily follow—a natural leader.
They had also told her that he was a widower, whose wife had died birthing the last of his three children, who were currently living with relatives in exile in Namarro.
He would be a fine Gyula, should the Moitidi who governed fate ordain that for him. And if that happened . . . well, Allesandra, like Marguerite before her, believed that marriage was a fine weapon to wield. And if one’s spouse was at least pleasant to be with, that was a bonus.
After the service, she allowed ca’Vikej to take her arm as they proceeded first from the temple, Allesandra nodding to those she knew as she passed them. “A stern warning from the A’Téni,” he commented. His voice was warm and low, his breath smelled pleasantly of some eastern spice. “Thank you, Kraljica, for allowing me the privilege of sitting with you.”
“I was surprised to see you there, Vajiki,” she said.
“I once thought of becoming a téni myself,” he told her. “My vatarh talked me out of it, but ever since . . .” She felt him shrug. “I still find great comfort in the Faith. And besides, I knew there was a good chance you would be attending.”
“Ah? And why would that be important, Vajiki?” she asked.
He laughed at that, deep and throaty and genuine. She liked that laugh, liked the way it deepened the lines around the man’s eyes. “I never had the chance to properly thank you for the dance at the Gschnas, Kraljica.”
“That’s all? Are all Magyarians so aggressively courteous, Vajiki?”
Again, the laugh. They were approaching the doors, and the téni there opened them wide. The western sky above the buildings that fringed the plaza was touched with red and orange, as if the clouds were afire. They entered out into a cool evening. A crowd of citizens had gathered—some who had come out of the side doors of the temple to see the Kraljica, as well as the usual curious tourists. Allesandra’s carriage was waiting several steps away, the driver already holding open the door for her. They cheered as she emerged from the temple, and Allesandra lifted her hand to them. “No, I’m afraid not,” ca’Vikej answered as the crowd roared. “But they don’t have the incentive of your beauty. As you can see, even your subjects are overcome.”
Now it was Allesandra who laughed, stopping momentarily. “You’ve inherited your vatarh’s golden tongue, I see, but I don’t flatter that easily, Vajiki. Forgive me if I say that I suspect your motives are more political than personal.”
“In that, you’d be—” he began to reply. But a shout from the front of the crowd interrupted him.
“Don’t be a traitor to your own faith, Kraljica!” a male voice shouted. His voice was strangely loud, as if enhanced by the Ilmodo, and all heads turned toward it. The gardai holding back the crowd were suddenly shoved aside as if some invisible, gigantic hand had pushed them sprawling to the flags of the pavement, and a green-clad téni, the slash of his rank on the robes telling Allesandra that he was an o’téni, stepped through the gap. She recognized him, though she didn’t know his name; his was a face she’d glimpsed among A’Téni ca’Paim’s staff. “You defile Cénzi if you bring the body of a Numetodo heretic into this sacred place. Cénzi will not allow it!” The o’téni stalked closer. Allesandra felt ca’Vikej’s arm leave hers. “Those who are truly faithful will stop this travesty if we must!” The man’s face was twisted as he shouted, and now he beg
an to chant, his hands moving in the pattern of a spell. But Allesandra heard the whisper of steel being drawn from a scabbard, and ca’Vikej had rushed from her side. One muscular arm was around the téni’s head and a dagger in his hand was pressed against the man’s throat.
“Another word,” she heard him say in the téni’s ear, “and you’ll have no throat with which to talk.”
The téni’s hands dropped and he stopped his chant. The gardai, regaining their feet, were now around him as well, several of them stepping between Allesandra and the téni. She heard shouts and cries. Hands hurried her to her carriage. Past uniformed shoulders, she saw the téni being dragged away, still screaming. “. . . betraying the Faith . . . no better than a Numetodo herself . . .”
She stepped up onto the carriage, and saw ca’Vikej, the dagger taken from him, also being hurried away. “No!” she shouted. “Bring Vajiki ca’Vikej here.”
They brought him to her, a garda holding each arm. “You may release him,” she told them; they reluctantly let go of ca’Vikej. “Give me his dagger,” she said, and one of them handed it to her. “Vajiki, in my carriage, please.”
As the door of the carriage closed and the driver urged the horses forward, Allesandra glanced at ca’Vikej. He was disheveled, his clothing torn, and there was a long scratch on his shaved head with beads of darkening blood along it. She lifted his dagger from her lap—a long, curved weapon, crafted from dark, satiny Firenzcian steel with a carved ivory handle. She turned it in her hand, admiring it. “Very few people are permitted to bear a weapon in the presence of the Kraljica,” she said to him, keeping her face stern and unsmiling. “Especially one made in the Coalition.”
