A Magic of Dawn

by S L Farrell

  “Mt. Karnmor,” Allesandra said as he came up to her. Her voice was muffled by the lace handkerchief she held over her nose and mouth. “That’s what this must be. Talbot says that the records talk about how in Kraljiki Geofrai’s time, the north face of the mountain exploded and fell down. They claim that the ash fell as far away as Brezno.”

  “And Karnor?” Sergei asked.

  She shook her head. “We haven’t had word yet from them. That may not come for days.” He heard her breathe; he could taste the ash in the air. “If at all.” She turned from the balcony; Erik closed the curtained balcony doors. That did little to change the illumination in the room, lit only by candles and a téni-lamp on the mantel. “This is a horrible omen. We should pray for those in Karnor and all the cities of the island. For that matter, if what Talbot suspects is true, then things may even go badly for those as far away as Fossano.” Sergei saw ca’Vikej stroke Allesandra’s arm furtively, on the side away from Sergei. Yes, they’re now lovers . . . Allesandra seemed worried and tired. She took another long breath, tucking the handkerchief into the sleeve of her tashta. “You have something for me?” she asked.

  Sergei handed her the pouch. She took the letter from it and examined the seal, then broke the wax away from the paper and opened the envelope. She read the document slowly. Ca’Vikej read over her shoulder; she didn’t seem to care or notice. Sergei could see the tiny muscles of her jawline clenching as she read.

  “You know what this says?” she asked finally. She refolded the parchment, put it back into the envelope.

  Sergei looked deliberately at ca’Vikej without answering. Allesandra waved the envelope. “You can speak,” she said. “After all, as a claimant to the throne of West Magyaria, Erik has a vested interest in the answer.”

  “Erik . . .” She calls him by his familiar name. “Then yes, Kraljica, the Hïrzg told me what he intended to say to you.”

  “So nothing has changed.”

  Sergei shrugged. He stroked a finger along the edge of his false nose. “The Hïrzg holds to his original offer—name him as your heir, and upon your death the Holdings will automatically become one with the Coalition again. I told him that was unacceptable, but . . .” Another shrug. “I was unable to convince him of the wisdom of your alternative offer.”

  “Unable to convince him,” she repeated, her lips pursed. “No doubt you gave it an impressive effort.” She made no attempt to hide the mockery in her voice.

  “Kraljica, I’ve made no attempt to hide my preferences in this. I think that naming the Hïrzg as your heir would be best for the Holdings. But, as Ambassador, my feelings are of no concern. I represented you and the Holdings to the best of my poor abilities.” He spread his hands. “If you feel someone else could fare better, then you may have my resignation this afternoon.”

  Ca’Vikej turned away quickly, going over to the balcony door and holding the curtain aside to gaze out at the falling ash. Allesandra stared at Sergei. Then her head shook almost imperceptibly. “That won’t be necessary,” she said. “I believe you, Sergei.” She glanced over to the balcony, where ca’Vikej was still looking out. “It’s this horrible day. It has me on edge. A few of the servants were saying that very early this morning, they heard a series of low rumbles in the west, and then this . . .”

  He inclined his head to her. “Thank you, Kraljica. I’d hate to think that you believe I’ve misrepresented you or the Holdings.” He paused. She had crumpled the letter in her hand. “Perhaps,” he suggested softly, “we might tentatively agree to the Hïrzg’s offer to negotiate in person at Ville Colhem? If he believes that we are moving toward some kind of reconciliation, the Hïrzg might become less aggressive with his excursions over the Holdings’ borders.”

  She sniffed. She waved her hand. Ca’Vikej had returned to stand near her. Sergei saw her lean slightly toward him. “Perhaps,” she said. “I will have to think on this and consult with the Council.”

  And with ca’Vikej, Sergei thought. He smiled to her and bowed again. “Then I’ll leave you to your consultations, with your permission. Kraljica, Vajiki.” He nodded to them and shuffled his way to the door. He tapped on it with the knob of his cane and the hall attendant opened it. He gave them a final bow and left the chamber. Not long after, he was outside in the false night, where the gray ash drifted down from a gray sky over gray buildings.

  His carriage clattered up to the entrance of the palais. The driver held the door for him. He would go to the Bastida. That would suit his mood.

  It was a day for pain. A day for loss.

  Nico Morel

  THE FALSE NIGHT LINGERED into afternoon, and merged with its true cousin.

  The citizens of Nessantico tied cloths around their noses and mouths to keep out the ash, coughing in the fetid air. Some of those, the ones who were already having difficulty breathing, labored more than the healthy or even succumbed. A’Téni ca’Paim sent out the light-téni to light the lamps of the Avi a’Parete not long after Second Call, and had to send them out again to renew their glow after Third Call. The denizens of Oldtown slogged through ash almost as deep as the first joint of Nico’s forefinger.

  And Nico prayed. He gave thanks to Cénzi for sending this sign, this incontrovertible signal that He was angry at the Faith for their failure to follow the Divolonté and the Toustour, for their tolerance of those who denied Him. They would remember Nico’s words—those who had heard him speak in the park, and those who had been told his prophecy at secondhand—and they would realize the truth that he had spoken.

  Cénzi’s truth. The eternal truth.

  Death and darkness. Cénzi had wrapped them in both.

  “Nico?” He felt Liana come up behind him as he knelt before the altar in his room, felt her hand gently touch his shoulder. He shivered, his open eyes coming back to focus on the room. He coughed, the grit tickling his throat. He had no idea how long he’d been kneeling there—he’d heard the wind-horns sound Third Call, but that could have been turns ago. There seemed to be no time at all in this gloom. “The ash has stopped falling,” she told him. The mask she’d been wearing was looped around her neck. “There are people in the street outside. Lots of them. Ancel said I should come and get you.”

  He tried to rise to his feet and found he could not; his legs wouldn’t cooperate. Liana put her hands under his armpits and help him to stagger to the bed, where she rubbed life back into his legs. “You haven’t eaten anything for two hands of turns,” she told him. “I’ve brought some bread, cheese, and wine. Eat a bit first . . .”

  He did as she suggested, the first bite telling him how drawn his stomach was. He cut slices of cheese from the pale yellow block and tore at the loaf. The wine soothed the grittiness in his throat. “Thank you,” he told Liana, “I’m better now. How have you been with all this?” He lifted her from where she knelt in front of him.

  She gasped as he did so. “The baby just kicked,” she said. “Here, feel . . .” She put his hand on the slope of her stomach, and Nico felt the push of hand or foot against his fingers. He was certain that if he’d looked at her stomach, he might have seen the outline of that limb on her own stretched skin. “It won’t be long now, little one,” Liana crooned to the child. “You’ll be coming out to see your vatarh and matarh.”

  Nico leaned over to kiss Liana, and she smiled up at him. “You said Ancel . . .”

  She sighed and took his hand. He stood, his legs still tingling from his long sojourn at prayer, and followed her from the room.

  Ancel was waiting for them on the stoop of the house they’d taken in the depths of Oldtown. Above, the stars and moon were still masked in cloud and ash, but the ashfall, as Liana had said, had stopped. Still, the railings of the stoop were coated with it, and their feet raised cloudlets as they walked.

  And on the street . . .

  There were at least a hundred people there, perhaps more—it was difficult to tell in the darkness, but they filled the narrow street and spread out between the ho
uses on either side. Mixed in among them, Nico saw several green robes, their color muted by darkness and smears of ash. They were of all ages, both men and women. They gazed at the house, silent, but he stayed to the shadows of the stoop as he looked out at them.

  “How did they find us?” he asked Ancel, who only shook his head.

  “I don’t know, Absolute. They started gathering around Third Call. I watched, afraid that the Garde Kralji would come, but so far . . .” He shrugged, and ash slid from the folds of his cloak. “I’ve asked them to leave, told them that they’re putting us in danger, but they won’t go. They say they’re waiting to hear from you.”

  Nico nodded. “Then let me talk to them,” he said. He stepped to the edge of the stoop, Liana and Ancel just behind him, several other Morellis emerging from the house to stand with them. The crowd called out, seeing him in the glow of the lamps on the supports of the porch. He heard his name shouted, and Cénzi’s, but he raised his hands and the crowd quieted again.

  He looked out on the landscape, dark and ominous, interrupted only by the pools of light cast by those carrying lanterns, as if the stars had abandoned the sky for the ground. “If you believe that I am pleased by what has happened, you would be mistaken,” he said—slowly and softly, so that they leaned forward to hear his words. He cleared his throat, coughing once, and felt Cénzi touch his voice, so that it strengthened and swelled. “Yes, I said Cénzi would give a sign to us, and He has done so. He has given us an unmistakable and grim sign. The end times are coming, if the Faithful will not listen! What you see around you is the death of thousands, all of them martyrs so that we of the Faith might see the error of our current path, so we might see what awaits the world if we fail to heed Cénzi. I weep for each of those who have died. I weep because it had to come to this. I weep because you would not listen. I weep because you could not follow Cénzi’s words without His needing to give us this terrible punishment. I weep that we still have so much of His work to do. I weep that even as the ash coats Nessantico, those who rule her still do not see the truth of what we say.”

  He paused. In the audience, he could hear them coughing. “I know why you have come here,” he said. “But I tell you that you already know what you must do. It’s here in your hearts.” He touched his own chest, the words a fire in his throat burning away the taste of ash. “It’s in your souls, that Cénzi already holds. All you need to do is listen, and feel, and be open to Him. As Cénzi has been fierce in His sign, so we must be fierce in our response.”

  He paused, and his next words shredded the air like black claws. “It is time!” he roared to them. “That is what I have to tell you. It is our time. Now! It will be His time, or He will bring death down upon all of us! Now—go and show them!”

  He pointed southward, toward the Isle a’Kralj, toward the Old Temple, toward the Kraljica’s Palais, toward the South Bank with the houses of the ca’-and-cu’. They roared with him. He could feel Cénzi’s touch depart, leaving him weary and his legs again weak. But the clouds parted momentarily, releasing a shaft of blue moonlight that painted the crowd and illuminated their faces. “It’s another sign!” someone cried within the crowd, and they all began shouting. The crowd surged away from the house and away.

  Nico leaned against one of the supports of the porch, not caring that the ash stained his face, as he watched them move away. “Should we go with them, Absolute?” Ancel asked. “If that is what Cénzi wants of us . . .”

  “No,” he told them. “We must stay hidden a while yet—but soon. Soon.” He looked up; the clouds had closed once again over the moon and the street seemed darker than before, the shouting of the crowd fading in the distance.

  “Tonight, there’s something else we must do.”

  Sergei ca’Rudka

  COMMANDANT TALOS CU’INGRES GESTURED harshly at his offiziers. “You, take your squad to the River Market; I need you and you to use your men to control the Avi so that the fire-téni can get in and do their work. The rest of you, get your people to push the mob back up the Avi away from the Pontica—join up with the gardai coming in from the north if you can. Once we push them away from the Avi, they’ll break up in the smaller streets where we can control them. Use whatever force is necessary. Now, go! Go!”

  The offiziers bowed and hurried away from the Garde Kralji command center hastily set up on the North Bank at the Pontica Kralji. It was a few turns before dawn, though time was nearly impossible to gauge in this gloom. Sergei—listening from inside his carriage, opened the door and went over to where cu’Ingres stood, leaning over a table with a map of the city spread out on it, his staff placing markers as messengers hurried in with the latest reports. Beyond, well up the Avi, Sergei could see fires sending black smoke coiling up to join the gray ash clouds. Everyone, cu’Ingres included, looked as if they’d been rolling in a fireplace.

  “I heard about the mob,” Sergei said. “I thought I’d see if I could be of assistance.”

  “Ambassador,” cu’Ingres said wearily. “I appreciate the offer, and I’m sure I can benefit from your experience. However, I think we finally have the fires and the mob under control. There’s no longer any danger to the Isle or the South Bank.” He nodded to the glow of the conflagrations. “The fire-téni from the Old Temple are making some progress with that, though sometimes I think it would serve them right if they ended up burning Oldtown to the ground.”

  “The Morellis?”

  Cu’Ingres nodded. “I had a report of a crowd gathering at a house, supposedly where Nico Morel was hiding. I had one of my a’offiziers and his people heading to the area to investigate, but then they were set upon by a mob that was moving toward the Avi and the Isle. They were setting fires and looting as they went—shouting about signs and the end of days and the usual Morelli garbage. Morel had worked them up into a frenzy about all this, though Morel himself and the people close to him weren’t with them.” He kicked at the drifts of ash on the street. “It’s been a shit of a day, if you don’t mind my saying so. First all the problems with the ash, then this.”

  Sergei clapped the man on the back. “You’ve done well, Talos, and I’ll let the Kraljica know that. Casualties?”

  “Nothing serious, thank Cénzi. A few injuries from thrown rocks and the skirmishes with the mob: bloodied heads and broken bones, the usual. A few of the fire-téni have been overcome with smoke and exhaustion; that’s only going to get worse until these fires are under control, but A’Téni ca’Paim is sending more téni to help. There were a few of the Morellis killed in the skirmish and several injured. We have several hands of prisoners.”

  “Prisoners. Ah.” Sergei found himself stirring with the familiar old passion at that. “Where are they?”

  He thought that cu’Ingres hesitated a breath too long before replying. Then he inclined his head toward the northern end of the bridge. “Over there. I was going to have them transported to the Bastida as soon as I had enough gardai to spare.”

  “They should be able to tell us where Morel is now,” Sergei said.

  “I’m sure they can,” cu’Ingres answered blandly. “I’m sure they will.”

  “Carry on, Talos,” Sergei told him, “but have a full squad of gardai ready to leave within a mark.”

  A salute. “As you wish, Ambassador.”

  Sergei saluted the man and moved painfully toward the bridge. He found the prisoners easily, seated on the ashsmeared cobbles near the bridge and ringed by sullen gardai. The o’offizier in charge saluted as Sergei approached, stepping aside so that Sergei could look at the captured rioters. Some of them glared back at him, others simply stared with heads down at the pavement. “I need to know where Nico Morel is,” he told them. “I know at least some of you know. I need one of you to tell me.”

  There was no answer. The closest of them to him—an e’téni, his green robes of office torn and stained with ash and soot, blood smeared across his face—scowled and spat in Sergei’s direction. The man’s hands were bound—so he could
not use a spell to escape or attack the gardai. “We won’t tell you, Silvernose,” he said. “None of us will. We won’t betray him.”

  Sergei smiled gently toward the man. “Oh, one of you will. Willingly. And you’re going to help me. Take him,” he said to the e’offizier. “Bring him over here.”

  Sergei stepped back, waving his cane to the driver of his carriage, who slapped the reins on the horse and came clattering over to where Sergei stood. “I need rope,” Sergei said, and one of the gardai ran to fetch a length. “Tie his feet also,” he said, pointing to the téni and knowing that all the prisoners were watching. When the gardai had finished binding the feet as they had his hands, Sergei had them lash a short length of rope from the man’s hands to the back of the carriage. The e’téni watched, his eyes widening.

  Sergei tapped the cobbles of the Avi at his feet with the brass ferrule of his cane, and the téni glanced down. “These stones . . . These are the very soul of Nessantico. The Avi wraps the city in its embrace—and as you know as a téni, defines the city with its lamps. The people who made the Avi did so with care and with a love for their work. Look at these cobbles; they were carved from the granite of hills south of here and brought to the city by the wagonload, and placed carefully. It took sweat and labor and care, but they did it. They did it not only because they were paid, but because they love this city.” The téni was staring at him; both prisoners and gardai were listening to him. “But . . . These stones, ancient as they are, remain rough and hard. Eternal—like this city and the Holdings, I like to think. Why, these stones are so stern and unforgiving that I must have a wheelwright replace the rims of my carriage’s wheels twice a year, and they’re made of steel. Can you imagine what these stones would do to mere flesh if, let us say, someone were dragged over them like the wheels of this fine carriage? Why, it would tear and rip and flay the skin from that person, break his bones, and pull him apart, piece by piece. That would be an unpleasant and horrible death. Don’t you agree, e’téni?”