A Magic of Dawn (27 page)
Authors: S. L. Farrell
He realized suddenly that the carriage had stopped. He opened his eyes, lifted his head. “Are we at the palais already?” Sergei called out to the driver, surprised. Had he fallen asleep? Was he that exhausted?
“No, Ambassador,” the man said. “I think . . . I think you should see this.”
Sergei lifted the flap over the carriage window and stuck his head out, peering around. They were still on the Avi, just approaching the southern end of the Pontica a’Brezi Veste. A few other carriages had stopped as well, and many within the crowd were gaping westward. On his seat above Sergei, the driver pointed in the same direction.
Over the roofs of Nessantico, a blackness had risen from the west. It was already beginning to blot out the sun: like a wedge of strange, coiling, and rolling storm clouds without lightning and thunder, and moving so rapidly that they seemed to outrace the wind. Already the edge of it was directly above Sergei, masking the sun. A false dusk came, and the air under the storm was strangely warm. Something was falling, as well, but it was not rain: gray flecks that almost looked like impossible snow. Sergei caught a few flakes in his palm, touching them with his fingertips: they smeared on his skin like ash, dry. “Driver! Move on,” he called. “Hurry, man!”
The driver nodded and flicked the end of his whip over the back of the horse. “Hey-ah!” he called to the beast, and the carriage began to move again, lurching wildly. Sergei let the flap fall back over the window.
He hoped he was wrong in his surmise.
At the palais, he disembarked into what seemed an early night. The ash was falling more heavily now, and the clouds covered the sky entirely. Servants were running about, lighting lanterns, and Talbot rushed from the palais entrance to Sergei’s carriage. “This way, Ambassador,” he said. “The Kraljica is waiting.” Sergei grabbed the diplomatic pouch and, hurrying as fast as he could with his cane, shuffled along after Talbot, who escorted him through the private corridors and up a flight of stairs to a chamber on the western side of the palais. There, Allesandra was standing near the open balcony of the chamber. Erik ca’Vikej was with her. Sergei bowed to both of them as Talbot announced him and closed the chamber doors, and he went to where Allesandra stood. She was gazing out over the grounds of the palais, which were already dusted as if by a gray snowfall.
“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.
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.”
“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.
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.
T
HE FALSE NIGHT LINGERED into afternoon, and merged with its true cousin.
HE 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 houses 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.”
still
do not see the truth of what we say.”
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