Authors: S. L. Farrell
A Magic of Dawn (10 page)
But Elissa . . . There had been more there. He still felt the passion occasionally, like the pulling of an old scar long thought to be healed. Now, that ancient scar felt entirely ripped open.
The White Stone has returned . . .
The White Stone has returned . . .
There was nothing more he could do about it. Cu’Bloch would find her, or not. Jan took a long breath, let it out again. “Enough of this,” he said. “Archigos, what is it you wanted to talk to me about before the Commandant distracted us?”
Karrol lifted his head. The movement seemed painful; his knuckles tightened around his staff. “Ambassador Karl ca’Pallo of Paeti, the Numetodo A’Morce, has died.”
“I know that,” Jan said impatiently. “I saw the news in Ambassador ca’Rudka’s last dispatch. What of it?”
“I know you were reluctant to have the Faith move against the Numetodo considering the aid that ca’Pallo gave to both you and your matarh in the past. But . . . I wonder if now . . .”
“If now
what
?” Jan interrupted. It was the old, old conflict—one that Karrol’s predecessor Semini had believed in, that Semini’s marriage-vatarh Orlandi had fought as well: the Numetodo were a threat to all of those within the Faith—with their usage of forbidden magic, with their lack of belief in any of the gods, with their reliance on logic and science to explain the world. It was the battle that Nico Morel championed too, more voraciously and harshly than even the Archigos. Jan was far less convinced. For him, belief in the Faith was a necessity of his title and little else—it was like a political marriage. “You want to be become a Morelli now, Archigos, and begin persecuting the Numetodo again? I find that a bit ironic, myself, since it’s one of the things Morel wanted the Faith to do all along.”
what
?” Jan interrupted. It was the old, old conflict—one that Karrol’s predecessor Semini had believed in, that Semini’s marriage-vatarh Orlandi had fought as well: the Numetodo were a threat to all of those within the Faith—with their usage of forbidden magic, with their lack of belief in any of the gods, with their reliance on logic and science to explain the world. It was the battle that Nico Morel championed too, more voraciously and harshly than even the Archigos. Jan was far less convinced. For him, belief in the Faith was a necessity of his title and little else—it was like a political marriage. “You want to be become a Morelli now, Archigos, and begin persecuting the Numetodo again? I find that a bit ironic, myself, since it’s one of the things Morel wanted the Faith to do all along.”
“Morel was stripped of his title as o’téni because he would not accept the guidance of his superiors,” Karrol answered. “He was insubordinate and impatient and believed himself better than any a’téni or even myself. He claims to speak directly with Cénzi. He’s a madman. But even the mad occasionally say things that make sense.”
“You know my feelings on this.”
“I do. And I know your allegiance to the Faith is strong, my Hïrzg.” Jan chuckled inwardly at that; Jan was no longer sure what he believed, though he made the required motions. “But—if I may be permitted a bit of blunt honesty, my Hïrzg—you listen too much to Ambassador ca’Rudka. The Silvernose believes in nothing that doesn’t advance his own interests.”
“And you would have me listen more to you, is that it, Archigos?”
“I flatter myself that I know you better than the Silvernose, my Hïrzg.” Jan sniffed at that. Flattering himself was one thing the Archigos did very well indeed. “Your matarh attaches herself to the Numetodo,” Karrol continued. “The reports I get from A’Téni ca’Paim—”
“I see those same reports,” Jan interrupted. “And I know my matarh. Better than you.”
“No doubt,” Karrol answered. “You undoubtedly know that Stor ca’Vikej’s son Erik is in Nessantico, also—no doubt he is looking for her help to gain the throne his vatarh couldn’t take. Each day Allesandra remains on the Sun Throne, she becomes stronger, my Hïrzg.”
Jan scowled. He tended to agree with Karrol on that, even if he’d never admit it. He had given her the title she’d coveted for so long when Nessantico was broken and shattered. It had seemed an appropriate punishment at the time, an irony he couldn’t pass by. But she had managed somehow to turn that irony on its head. He had expected her to wither and fail, to realize her errors and beg his forgiveness and help; she’d done none of those things. She’d rebuilt the city and she’d managed to hold together the fragile connections between the various rulers of the countries that made up the Holdings. With Stor ca’Vikej, she’d nearly wrenched West Magyaria back to the Holdings—she
might
have succeeded, had she actually sent the full Nessantican army in support of the man’s ragtag army of loyalists. As it was, he’d had to put all of Firenzcian’s military might to bear in order to put down the rebellion.
might
have succeeded, had she actually sent the full Nessantican army in support of the man’s ragtag army of loyalists. As it was, he’d had to put all of Firenzcian’s military might to bear in order to put down the rebellion.
The Firenzcian Coalition had been unable to profit from Nessantico’s misfortune. Il Trebbio had briefly joined the Coalition in the wake of the Tehuantin invasion, then a few months later had returned to the Holdings when Allesandra had offered them a better treaty and married one of the ca’Ludovici daughters to the current Ta’Mila of Il Trebbio. Nammaro had entered into negotiations with Brezno, then pulled away from them also.
No, his matarh had shown herself to be all too wellskilled politically, and Jan should have known. He should have seized the Sun Throne himself, should have brought the Holdings forcibly into the Coalition with his army still in the city. He could have done all that. But he’d been young and inexperienced and blinded by the chance to humble his matarh.
It wasn’t an opportunity he would pass up again. And if Silvernose ca’Rudka was right, he might have that opportunity. Soon.
There was a discreet, soft knock on the door—that would be Rance ci’Lawli, his chief secretary and aide, letting him know that the Council of Ca’ was in their chamber waiting for him. And there was a question he wanted to ask Rance, in any case: he had not seen Mavel cu’Kella for two days now . . .
Jan smiled, grimly, at Karrol. “Leave my matarh to me,” he told the Archigos, “and concern yourself with the work of Cénzi, Archigos. Now, I have other duties . . .”
Karrol, with little good grace, rose from his chair. Bent over, he gave Jan the sign of Cénzi. “The works of Cénzi extend even to matters of state, my Hïrzg,” he said.
“So you always tell me, Archigos,” Jan retorted. “Interminably.”
T
HE DAY OF THE FUNERAL was appropriately gloomy. Heavy, slumbering clouds sagged low in a leaden sky, flailing at Nessantico with occasional spatters of chilling rain. The ceremony in the Old Temple had been interminable, with various dignitaries spouting eulogies praising Karl. Even the Kraljica had stood up and delivered a speech. Varina had heard little of it, honestly. All their lovely, ornate phrases had run together into meaningless noise.
HE DAY OF THE FUNERAL was appropriately gloomy. Heavy, slumbering clouds sagged low in a leaden sky, flailing at Nessantico with occasional spatters of chilling rain. The ceremony in the Old Temple had been interminable, with various dignitaries spouting eulogies praising Karl. Even the Kraljica had stood up and delivered a speech. Varina had heard little of it, honestly. All their lovely, ornate phrases had run together into meaningless noise.
She sat in the first pew with Sergei and the Kraljica surrounding her, and she stared at the bier on which Karl’s body lay. She felt dead herself, inside. All the oiled and polished words of admiration might as well have been spoken in some foreign language. They did not touch her. She stared at Karl’s body. He looked
wrong,
as if the corpse was some poor waxen sculpture laying there. Perhaps Karl was standing elsewhere in the temple, laughing at what was being said about him. Sergei leaned over toward her at one point and whispered something into her ear. She didn’t hear him; she just nodded and he eventually leaned away again.
wrong,
as if the corpse was some poor waxen sculpture laying there. Perhaps Karl was standing elsewhere in the temple, laughing at what was being said about him. Sergei leaned over toward her at one point and whispered something into her ear. She didn’t hear him; she just nodded and he eventually leaned away again.
There was a mourning mask on her lap: a white, expressionless face of thin porcelain, the closed lips too red, the open eyeholes shimmed with wisps of black fabric, a black lace veil glued to the top and draped over the front. The mask was mounted on a long stick so she could fold her hands on her lap and still have the mask cover her face if she felt the need to be private. The mask seemed too much effort to lift, and it seemed wholly inadequate to cover her grief.
The murals of the newly-rebuilt Great Dome of cu’Brunelli had been draped with silken curtains: all the images of Cénzi and the Moitidi hidden because a Numetodo—a heretic, a horrible unbeliever—lay beneath them. She realized that without really seeing it. The sacred vessels and embroidered cloths had been removed from the altar on the quire, even the bas-reliefs carved on the thick buttresses had been veiled.
She should have been amused, noting that. Karl would have been, certainly. She
was
amused, somewhere distantly. She felt as if “Varina” were somewhere outside, observing this dull, wooden simulacrum of herself.
was
amused, somewhere distantly. She felt as if “Varina” were somewhere outside, observing this dull, wooden simulacrum of herself.
Varina realized that the people were standing around her, that several of the Numetodo had moved to their positions alongside the bier. The plan was for the bier to move in procession through the streets around the Old Temple to the outer courtyard of the Kraljica’s Palais, where the pyre awaited the body. It was a relatively short distance of about two and a half blocks in the Isle a’Kralji—far, far shorter than the grand processions for Kraljica Marguerite or Kraljiki Justi, which had followed nearly the entire circle of Avi a’Parete around the city.
Nessantico was still careful about celebrating the Numetodo too much.
She would watch his body be consumed by the flames, and afterward . . .
Varina didn’t want to think about that. She didn’t want to contemplate the rest of the day, returning to the Ambassador’s residence on the South Bank where Karl’s ghost would haunt every corner and every memory, where she would constantly be reminded of the loss she had suffered.
She would never sleep next to him again. She would never hold him again. Never talk to him. She felt emptied of everything important, felt dead herself. Someone could cut off her hands or drive a knife into her heart and she would feel nothing.
Nothing.
She was standing with the others. She realized that belatedly, wondering whether she had risen herself or whether someone had helped her up. She didn’t remember. She blinked, heavily. The bier with Karl’s body, resting with hands folded atop his fine white bashta and the green sash of Paeti, was passing her; she shuffled out directly behind it with the others following. Sergei remained at her side, his silver-tipped cane tapping on the flags, his silver-tipped face gazing sternly forward; Kraljica Allesandra and A’Téni ca’Paim were directly behind them, then the various ca’and-’cu’ of the city, the diplomatic representatives living in Nessantico, and finally those of the Numetodo.
The doors of the Old Temple were pushed open. Even under the dreary sky, the light made Varina narrow her eyes. She could taste rain in the air, and the flags of the plaza were damp. The curious had come out as well: they crowded behind the ranks of Garde Kralji and utilino who were keeping a wide corridor open for the invited mourners to pass through. Varina could feel their stares on her, and she lifted the mourning mask to her face, closing out the world.
The carriages were there, waiting, along with the flatbedded funeral wagon drawn by three white horses in a four-horse harness, the left front space glaringly vacant. Behind the funeral wagon were two of the Kraljiki’s carriages drawn by black horses, one carriage for Varina and Sergei, who would ride with her; the other for the Kraljica Allesandra. A’Téni ca’Paim’s carriage was next, without horses, only a driver-téni in white mourning robes sitting on the seat, ready to turn the wheels with the power of the Ilmodo. The remainder of the mourners would walk behind—those who wished to follow the procession to the pyre. Many would not, Varina knew—they had already been seen, which was primarily why they were here: so the Kraljica and A’Téni ca’Paim noticed their faces and knew they had performed their social duty and paid their respects.
A servant opened the gilded door of the carriage for her and proffered a hand to help her up. She felt the suspension dip under her weight, then dip again as she settled into the plush leather seat and Sergei put his weight on the step and ducked to enter. She let the mourning mask fall back into her lap. He smiled gently at her as he settled into the seat with a groan while the attendant closed and latched the door.
“How are you doing, my dear?” he asked. He groaned again as he shifted position on the seat. She heard his knee crack as he flexed it.
For a moment, she heard nothing but nonsense syllables. It took her a breath to process the question and have it make sense. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “But I’m glad you’re here with me. Karl . . . Karl would have appreciated it.”
He leaned forward and touched her knee with a thin hand momentarily—the gesture of a confidant. Shadows slid over his silver nose, around the much-wrinkled face. “He was a good friend to me, Varina. Both of you have been. The two of you literally saved my life, and I will never forget that. Never.”
She nodded. “That debt, one way or another, was paid and repaid between you and Karl. You needn’t worry.”
“Oh, I don’t,” Sergei answered, and she pondered that remark before letting it waft away like the rest. Unimportant. The carriage lurched, one of the horses snorting, and they began to move. She could hear the steel-rimmed wheels clattering on the uneven paving stones of Old Temple Court. She sat silently, neither looking at Sergei nor at the view outside, but inside her own head, where Karl’s face still lived. She wondered if she would begin to forget the familiar lines, the crinkled smile, and his eyes. She wondered if he would fade, and one day when she tried to conjure up his face she’d be unable to do so.
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