by S L Farrell
That stopped her, despite her trepidation. “It should have been me . . .” “May I ask who she was, Hïrzg?” Rochelle found herself saying, despite herself. She glanced at him once, saw his eyes, and dropped her gaze slightly.
He gave a one-shouldered, casual shrug. “I’m not really certain who she was, honestly. At best, she was a beautiful pretender who loved me, but became caught in the web of her lies; at worst . . .” He stopped again, giving the shrug once more. “At worst, she was an assassin.”
By Cénzi, he knows! The thought yanked her head up to him once more, her eyes wide. He seemed to mistake her response for fear. He smiled as if in apology. “If she was that,” he said, “then I became Hïrzg because of her. Maybe that’s what she intended all along.”
Rochelle nodded. Jan took a step in her direction and she retreated the same distance. He stopped. “You remind me so much of her, even the way you move. Maybe I should be afraid of you—are you an assassin, Rhianna?” He chuckled at his own jest. “Rhianna, you shouldn’t be afraid of me. I think we—”
“Jan?” They both heard the call from the adjoining room—Brie’s voice. The door to Elissa’s bedroom started to open. “A fast-rider has come from Nessantico with some urgent news . . .”
Jan’s head had turned at the sound of his name, and Rochelle took the moment. She grabbed the bucket and fled for the servants’ door. She closed the door, cutting off Brie’s voice.
She was trembling as she hurried down the stairs.
Varina ca’Pallo
“THIS WON’T HAPPEN AGAIN,” Allesandra said, her voice full of concern and anger. She patted Varina’s hand. “I promise you.” Varina saw the woman glance at her bandaged head, and Varina reflexively lifted a hand to touch the bandage. The loose sleeve of her tashta slipped down her arm, revealing the brown-scabbed scrapes there. The bruises on her face, which she’d seen this morning while taking her bath, had turned purple and tan.
“Thank you, Kraljica,” Varina told her. “I appreciate your concern, and thank you for sending over your personal healer—her potion eased the headache quite well.”
Allesandra waved a hand in dismissal. The two women were seated in the sunroom of Varina’s house, alone except for the two attendants who had accompanied the Kraljica, standing silently by the door. This room had been Karl’s favorite in their house; he would often sit here, looking over old scrolls or writing down some of his own observations at the little table facing the small garden outside. His cane still leaned against the desk he’d used; Varina had left it there—seeing the familiar items made her feel as if he might walk into the room. “Ah, there’s my cane,” he would say. “I was wondering where I left that . . .”
But she wouldn’t ever hear that voice again. The thought brought tears shimmering in her eyes, though they didn’t fall. Through their wavering veil, Varina saw Allesandra lean forward. “You’re still in pain?”
“No.” Varina wiped at her eyes. “It’s . . . nothing. The sun in my eyes—though I suppose I shouldn’t complain. It’s good to finally see the sun again.”
“The thugs who attacked you have been executed.”
Varina nodded; it was not what she’d wanted—Karl had always said, and she believed herself—that harsh retribution only fed the anger in their enemies. But the news didn’t surprise her, and she found that she could summon little sympathy for them.
Sympathy? What sympathy did you have when you shot your attacker? That image remained with her still. She didn’t think she would ever forget it. Yet . . . She would do it again, if she had to, and the next time the act would be easier. She would protect herself if she must, and she would do that in whatever way she could—through magic or through technology. To her, they were no different: both were products of logic and thought and experimentation.
Magic and technology were the same, at the core.
The sparkwheel was in the drawer of Karl’s desk now, reloaded. She could almost feel its presence, could imagine the smell of the black sand.
Allesandra evidently attributed her silence to acquiescence. She nodded as if Varina had said something. “I spoke to A’Téni ca’Paim and told her how serious I consider this incident to be. I warned her that she must deal harshly with the Morellis in the ranks of her téni, and that I expected the Faith to continue to support the rights of the Numetodo, and not to return to preaching oppression and persecution.”
“With all due respect, Kraljica, that command needs to come from Archigos Karrol, not you or even A’Téni ca’Paim. I’m afraid the Archigos doesn’t share your enthusiasm for the Numetodo, and his distaste for the Morellis stems mostly from his fear that Nico Morel might actually have enough power take his place, not from any particular disagreement with their philosophy. In that, they seem rather aligned.”
A small moue of irritation flickered across Allesandra’s lips, but was quickly masked by a smile. “You’re right, of course, Varina. As usual. But it’s what I could do, and hopefully A’Téni ca’Paim agrees with me. So perhaps we can do some good.” She reached over to pat Varina’s hand again. “I should leave you to your recovery,” she said. “If you need anything, please let me know. We—the Holdings—will need the Numetodo, I’m afraid.”
“The Tehuantin?” Varina asked. “It’s true, then, the rumors—the Westlanders have returned?”
The single nod was all the answer Allesandra gave. It was enough. “I should go,” the Kraljica said, rising from her chair. “No, don’t get up. I can see myself out. Don’t forget—tell me if you need anything. The Holdings is in your debt for your service, and for Karl’s.” The attendants stirred, opening the door to the sunroom as Allesandra pressed a hand to Varina’s shoulder in passing and left. Varina heard her own servants bustling as the Kraljica moved down the hall toward the main door and her carriage. She heard the doors open, and the clattering of the horses’ hooves and steel-rimmed wheels on the drive’s cobbles.
She didn’t move. She stared at the windows and the garden, at the desk with Karl’s cane, at the ornate pull of the drawer where the sparkwheel was nestled.
The front door shut again. Her downstairs maid knocked softly on the door. “Do you need anything, A’Morce?”
“No, thank you, Sula,” Varina told her without looking at her. She heard the sunroom door close softly again. She felt the breeze of it, like a caress on her cheek.
“I miss you, Karl,” she said to the air. “I miss talking to you. I wonder what you would tell me to do now. I wish I could hear you.”
But there was no answer to that. There never would be.
Brie ca’Ostheim
JAN WAS KISSING SOMEONE, and Brie felt an immense tug of jealousy and irritation because he hadn’t even bothered to hide it. He was in the audience chamber of the palais, and everyone was watching Jan embrace his lover: Rance, Starkkapitän ca’Damont, Archigos Karrol, the children, all the courtiers and ca’-and-cu’. She couldn’t see the woman’s face, but the hair was long and black, and the sound of their passion was loud enough that Brie could hear a beating like that of a heart . . .
The quiet but insistent knock came from the servants’ door, and it shattered the dream. “Enter,” Brie said sleepily. She rubbed at her eyes, squinting toward the balcony, where the thin drapes swayed with only false dawn’s light behind them. Brie yawned as the door eased open and Rhianna stuck her head in. “Hïrzgin, Rance sent me up. The Ambassador ca’Rudka has returned to Brezno.”
“Sergei?” Brie gestured to the young woman to come into the bedroom, sitting up in the bed. She did so almost shyly, standing with her head down at the foot of the bed. “He’s back so quickly?”
Rhianna nodded. “Yes. Aide ci’Lawli said that the runner from the Holdings embassy said that the Ambassador would be arriving at the palace as soon as he bathed and dressed. He has an urgent message from Kraljica Allesandra.”
Rhianna’s face seemed to twist as she said the last, as if the name tasted sour in her mouth. “I take it you don’
t care for the Kraljica, Rhianna?”
Rhianna shrugged. “I’m sorry, Hïrzgin. It’s not me. It’s my matarh. She . . . Well, she had dealings with the Kraljica. Before I was born. Exactly what her issues were I don’t know, but Matarh never spoke the Kraljica’s name without a curse following it. I’m afraid her attitude has affected mine.”
Brie laughed at that. “Well, a child should listen to her matarh, and your matarh’s attitude wouldn’t be all that unusual in this household, I’m afraid. Is your matarh still living?”
Rhianna shook her head. “No, Hïrzgin. She passed to the Second World three years ago now.”
“Ah, I’m sorry to hear that. It must have been hard for you.” Brie pushed the covers down; the sky was beginning to lighten beyond the drapes. “Did Rance tell you what the Ambassador was in such a hurry about?” Brie was certain she already knew the tidings that had brought Sergei hurrying back to Brezno—a fast-rider from their own Ambassador ca’Schisler had come to Brezno from Nessantico not long after the ashfall, but Rance and Jan had scoffed at the rumors that ca’Schisler had given them.
They were about to be confirmed. Brie was certain of it.
Rhianna gave another shake of her head. “Aide ci’Lawli said only that the Ambassor claimed the message was urgent, and he asks you to come to the lower reception room as soon as you’re able. Aide ci’Lawli is having breakfast sent there; I’m told the Hïrzg is already present and the Starkkapitän and the Archigos have been sent for as well.”
“Hmm . . .” Brie sighed and tossed the covers back completely. If this is true, if the Westlanders are coming again . . . “You’ll help me dress, then, Rhianna. In the closet in the dressing room, I’d like the blue tashta with the black lace trim. Go get it; I’ll be there in a few moments.”
Rhianna curtsied and left the room for the adjacent dressing room. Brie sighed as she swung her legs over the side of the bed.
The morning air was chilly on her bare feet, and through the drapes she could see clouds that promised rain.
Jan ca’Ostheim
“YOU’RE CERTAIN OF THIS? Absolutely certain?”
Jan stared at Sergi ca’Rudka as he asked the question, watching the man’s face and trying to ignore the distraction of the silver nose. Not that one could ever see a lie in the Ambassador’s ancient, lined, and practiced face, but he still watched. Sergei only nodded, slowly and carefully.
Jan heard the massed sigh from the others around the conference table: Archigos Karrol, Starkkapitän ca’Damont, Brie, his aide Rance.
“Oh, it’s certain,” Sergei answered. His voice sounded tired, and his travel cloak was still stained gray with the ash kicked up in his travel from the Holdings capital. He reached into the leather pouch that sat on the table before him and placed a stack of bound papers on the polished oak. “I have the transcripts here with me of the several fast-riders who came to Nessantico immediately after the ashfall—many of them are firsthand reports of having seen the Tehuantin fleet. The Kraljica has sent riders heading west to verify the sighting, but we’re certain what we’ll find. I came as fast as I could, but by now . . .” Sergei shrugged. “The Westlanders may have already landed their army. We’ve lost Karnmor to them; Fossano could already be under attack, or they could be heading past that city upriver toward Villembouchure.”
Jan found himself still wanting to deny the news. How was it possible that Westlander magic could have brought Mt. Karnmor to life? How could they have destroyed the Holdings fleet and the city of Karnor, how could they have caused thousands of deaths and this horrifying ashfall?
“Could the eruption of Mt. Karnmor have been a fortunate coincidence for the Westlanders?” Jan asked. “They didn’t necessarily cause that to happen.”
Sergei sniffed. “They didn’t land their army on the island. They took their fleet well north of Karnmor when it would have made more sense for them to move directly toward the mouth of the A’Sele. One of our eyewitnesses saw a Tehuantin ship at anchor at the flank of Mt. Karnmor the night before the mountain exploded, and lights on the slopes going to and from the ship. That doesn’t sound like a coincidence to me, Hïrzg.”
And if they could do that, what else could they do? That’s what they were thinking, all of them in the room. “When the fast-rider came from Nessantico, I didn’t want to believe this,” Jan told him. “I thought perhaps—”
“I told you that your matarh wouldn’t dare use such an outrageous lie,” Brie interrupted.
“Yes, you did,” Jan answered, though he didn’t bother to hide the irritation in his voice. “Though I’m certain that the fact that it’s true won’t stop her from trying to take whatever advantage she can from the situation. So what is it that my matarh wants, Ambassador, that she’d send you so quickly back to Brezno?”
“She asks for the help of Firenzcia and the Coalition,” Sergei said simply.
“Asks for or demands?” Jan interrupted. Sergei spread his shriveled, delicate hands wide.
“Does it matter, Hïrzg Jan? The Garde Civile of the Holdings couldn’t stand alone against the Tehuantin fifteen years ago and defeat them. They still cannot.”
From the edge of his vision, Jan saw Starkkapitän ca’Damont allow himself a momentary smile at that. “So now she wants our army to enter Holdings territory. How terribly amusing and ironic.”
“We have no obligation to help them,” Archigos Karrol said. The elderly man’s voice quavered, and he cleared his throat noisily afterward, phlegm rattling in his lungs. “The Tehuantin wish to attack the Holdings? Well, let them. They won’t come here, or if they do, we’ll deal with them at that time, when their supply lines have stretched too far and their forces are weak.”
“No obligation to help?” Sergei responded. “Only the obligation that Cénzi gives us in the Toustour, and also by the rules of the Divolonté. ‘It is the duty of the Faithful to help those of the Faith who are in desperate need.’ I believe that’s an accurate quote—or has the Archigos decided to abandon those of the Faith who happen to live in the Holdings?”
“If your Kraljica hadn’t decided to interfere in issues of faith and coddle and legitimize the Numetodo, then perhaps Cénzi wouldn’t have sent this trial to her.”
“Now you sound like Nico Morel, Archigos. I must say I find that—to use the words of your good Starkkapitän—terribly amusing and ironic.”
Jan slapped his hands on the table. “Ambassador, Archigos, enough!” His hands tingled with the force of the impact. Archigos Karrol’s mouth slammed shut with an audible grating of teeth; Sergei simply leaned back in his chair, his hand wrapped around the knob of his cane. “What does my matarh offer, Ambassador? Because she must be offering something in return.”
The man’s nervous ticks were at least predictable—he rubbed at the side of his metal nose as if it itched. “She is willing to give you what you’ve asked for,” Sergei said, and Jan felt a sudden pressure in his chest. “She will name you A’Kralj,” Sergei finished.
Jan felt Brie’s hand on his arm. “Where is the knife blade hidden under those silken words?” she asked Sergei.
The Ambassador did smile at that, briefly. Then he leaned forward in his chair. “In return for the title, the Kraljica requests that Firenzcia dissolve the Coalition and immediately return to the Holdings. The other Coalition countries would be invited to rejoin the Holdings. If they refuse . . .” Sergei leaned back again. “Then the Kraljica, after this crisis is over, might be inclined to have them returned forcibly, with the aid of Firenzcia and the A’Kralj’s—and Hïrzg’s—army.”
The pressure in his chest released once more, and Jan felt himself laugh, a sound that was almost a cough. Archigos Karrol chuckled broadly. Both Rance and Starkkapitän ca’Damont shook their heads. Brie’s hand left his arm, leaving behind a chill. “So the old bitch still gets what she wants,” Jan said.
“It is a compromise,” Sergei responded. “You both get a portion of what you wanted. And you, Hïrzg Jan, get the final prize: y
ou’ll eventually be Kraljiki of a united Holdings.”
“While she gets to play Kraljica for the rest of her life.” He scoffed again. “And if she lives for decades yet, I get to play Justi to her Marguerite, waiting patiently for her to die so I can receive my inheritance.”
Sergei’s mouth twitched; Jan couldn’t decide if it was amusement or if he simply expected that objection. “I believe that I can persuade her to put a time limit on her reign, Hïrzg. After all, Allesandra will be sixty in 570; she might be persuaded to resign her title in favor of the A’Kralj at that point—which is only seven years from now.”
“Which would be adequate time for, ahh, some unfortunate accident to befall our Hïrzg,” Rance broke in. His smile showed no teeth, his lips pressed together as he inclined his head toward Sergei. “Such things seem to have a habit of occurring to those involved with the Kraljica, after all,” he added.
“Yet somehow I’ve managed to live,” Sergei answered, spreading his hands wide. “Kraljica Allesandra has her faults, I’ll admit, but let’s not fall prey to conspiracy rumors and attribute every misfortune to her influence. With the Archigos’ forgiveness, she’s hardly the Moitidi that some would make her out to be.”
Jan had only half-listened to the exchange. “Is she still bedding the pretender Erik ca’Vikej?”
Sergei sighed. “Yes,” he answered simply.
“I suppose she wants him on the throne of West Magyaria, and perhaps even married to her. Another ally to keep her on the throne.”
Sergei said nothing. Finally, Jan sighed. It’s this or war. It’s this or allowing the Westlanders to ravage the Holdings once again—and make it worthless to you. He glanced at Brie; she nodded to him. “She would do what you said?” Jan asked Sergei. “She would abdicate the Sun Throne on her sixtieth birthday?”
“That isn’t the offer she made, but I believe I can convince her of the wisdom of that choice,” Sergei answered. “Whatever you might think of your matarh, Hïrzg, or her choices in lovers, she truly does want what is best for the Holdings. She knows that means the Holdings needs to be one again.”
