A Magic of Dawn (54 page)

Read A Magic of Dawn Online

Authors: S. L. Farrell

BOOK: A Magic of Dawn
8.87Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
She stared down at him, huddled at her feet, his head still averted.
“I hate what you’ve preached and what you’ve done in the name of your beliefs,” she told him. “I hate the death and injury that have been suffered in your name. I despise what you stand for. But I don’t hate
you,
Nico. I will never hate you. I can’t. I wanted you to understand that, to know that before . . . before . . .”
She stopped. His head had turned, and he looked her once in the eyes before his gaze slid away again. She wasn’t certain what she saw there, his expression too distorted by the silencer around his head and the dimness of the cell. This wasn’t the Nico she’d met before, not the self-assured Absolute confident in the favor of his god. No, this was a shattered soul, wounded inside as well as outside.
She wondered whether that internal wound might not be as mortal as the one that would eventually kill him. There would be no trial for Nico—he was already judged and condemned. The Faith would insist on having his tongue and hands first, to pay for his disobedience of the Archigos; the state would demand the end of what was left for the death and destruction he’d caused. It would almost certainly all be done publicly, so the citizens could watch and cheer his torment and death. His body would swing in a cage from the Pontica Kralji until there was nothing left but his disconnected bones.
Nico was already dead, even though there was still misery he must endure.
She was crying. The sob pulsed once in her throat, a sound that the stone walls of the Bastida seemed to absorb greedily, as if it were the prison’s cold nourishment. She wiped at her face almost angrily. “I wanted to tell you about Liana and Serafina,” she said to him. “I hoped it would give you at least some small peace.” She wanted him to lift his head again, to look at her and perhaps nod, to give her at least that tiny recognition that he heard her and that he understood.
He did not. The iron chains around his hands rattled dully as he clutched them to his chest.
She called out through the tiny, barred window of the cell door to the garda. “Get me out of here,” she said.
 
Niente
 
T
HE FLAP OF NIENTE’S TENT WAS THRUST back, and Atl came stalking through. He was holding a brass scrying bowl—a new one, the metal still bright—and it dripped water onto the trampled grass at his feet.
“You lied, Taat,” he said. There was as much dismay in his voice as anger. “Axat has let me look at the path you’ve set us on. I looked at it again and again, and there is no victory for us down that road. None.”
“Then you’ve seen wrongly,” Niente told him, even though fear shivered through him. “That is not what Axat has shown me.”
“Then take out your bowl now,” Atl insisted. “Take it out and let us look together. Prove to me that you’re leading the Tecuhtli to where he wishes to go. Prove it, and I’ll be silent.” Niente could hear desperation in his son’s voice, and he rose from the blankets, using his spell-staff to steady him. He went to Atl, who was standing at the tent’s entrance like a bronzed statue. Outside, he could hear the army stirring in the early morning, striking the tents to prepare for the day’s march. The rain from the day before had ended; the air smelled fresh and clean.
Atl stared down at Niente as he approached. He clasped his son’s arm with his free hand, bringing him close. He could feel the young man resisting, then yielding to the embrace. “Atl,” he said quietly, finally releasing him and taking a step back. “I ask you to trust me: as your Taat, as your Nahual. Trust that I would not lead the Tehuantin to death. Trust that I want what you want: I want our people to prosper and to be safe. I love you; I love your brothers and sister, your mother. I love Tlaxcala and the lands of our home. I would not see those I love hurt or the land I know so well destroyed. Why would I want that? Why would I do that to you and to the Tehuantin?”
Atl was shaking his head. “I don’t know, Taat. It makes no sense to me either.” He lifted the bowl in his hand, and his voice was full of anguish and confusion. “But I know what I’ve seen. It was as clear as if I saw it happening before me. I had to tell the Tecuhtli what I saw. I had to, because you wouldn’t listen to me, and Axat was showing me what you insisted wasn’t true.”
“I know,” Niente told him, nodding. “You only did as I would have done in your place. I’m not angry with you.”
“I don’t
care
if you’re angry or not, Taat. You keep telling me that I’m not seeing correctly, but I know I have the far-sight. I know it.”
“You do,” Niente told him. “Though that makes me more sad than pleased. It’s a terrible gift to have, Atl. You don’t believe that now, but in time you will.”
“Yes, yes,” Atl waved the bowl between them. “ ‘Look at what it did to me,’ You keep saying that, but you had years before it disfigured you so badly. I remember, Taat. I remember what you looked like when I was young. I know the pain of it; I’ve already felt it, and I can bear it. If you’re going to insist that I’m not seeing correctly, then
show me!
” The final words were nearly a shout through clenched teeth. He closed his eyes, opened them, and his voice was a soft plea. “Damn it, Taat, show me. Please . . .”
He had seen this moment in the scrying bowl. He had seen his son’s fury, his disbelief. He had heard the accusations flung at him, had seen Atl rushing to Tecuhtli Citlali and telling him all—and he had seen where that path led. Yet the other path, the other choice he could make here, was far less clear, clouded with blood and the haze on the long sight, and he could only hope that somewhere in the mist was the Long Path he wanted.
There is no certainty to the future. There is only Possibility.
It was what old Mahri had told Niente when he’d first begun to use Axat’s gift, before Tecuhtli Necalli had sent Mahri to Nessantico. Then, Niente had been much like Atl, scoffing at Mahri’s warnings, not quite believing the older man. He was young, he was invincible, he knew better than those who had come before him, who were timid and frail.
After all, Tecuhtli Necalli had raised Niente to the title of Nahual after he’d sent Mahri away—but only after forcing him to confront the nahualli who currently held that title: Ohtli, whom Niente had killed.
Tecuhtli Citlali, who had in turn killed Tecuhtli Zolin in challenge, would likely do the same with the next Nahual: force challenge on Niente. He had seen that in visions, also, and he was afraid that he knew the mist-clothed person who stood over his broken body. He was terrified to see that face, and he would turn his eyes from the scrying bowl before the mists cleared.
“Get your bowl, Taat,” Atl said again, “or use mine, but let’s do this together. Show me what you say I fail to see. Prove it to me.”
“No,” Niente said. It was the only answer he could give.
“No? By the seven mountains, Taat, is that the only answer you can give me? ‘No’—just that single word?”
“I’ve given you my answer. Be content with it.” He turned and started to pack his things for the day’s march.
“Is that my Taat’s answer, or is that the Nahual’s answer?” Atl looked deliberately at the golden band on Niente’s forearm.
“It is both.”
“It’s not sufficient. I’m sorry, Taat. It’s not. Don’t do this. I beg you.”
“It’s time for us to break camp,” Niente answered, not looking at him. He couldn’t—if he did, he’d be lost. “Go, and prepare yourself.”
“Taat—”
Niente was holding his own scrying bowl. His hands were trembling around the incised rim, the animals carved there seeming to move of their own accord. He thrust the bowl into his bag. “Go,” he repeated.
He could feel Atl staring at him, could feel the anger rising in him. “Why are you forcing this on me?”
“I’m not forcing anything on you, Atl.” He turned, finally. He wanted to weep at the look on his son’s face. “You must make your own choices. All I’m asking is that you believe in me as you once did.”
“I want to do that, Taat. I want that more than anything. And all I’m asking is that you show me that I should. I want to learn from you. I want that more than anything. Teach me.”
“I have,” Niente told him. “And if I’ve taught you well, then you know to obey me.”
Atl’s face changed then. It went stern and closed, as if Niente were staring at a stranger. “There are other authorities I have to obey, Taat,” he said. “I’ll ask only once more. Take out your bowl. Show me.”
Niente only shook his head. Atl’s face went to stone. His hands tightened around his own bowl. “Then you leave me no choice, Taat. I’m sorry, but I can’t let you take us down to defeat. I can’t let the deaths of thousands of good warriors be on your head, and on mine because of my silence. I can’t . . .”
With that, Atl turned. “Atl, wait!” Niente called after him, but he was already through the flap of the tent and gone. “Atl . . .”
Niente sagged to the ground. He prayed to Axat to take him now, to end his stay here and carry him up to the starheavens. But that was nothing he had ever seen in the bowl, and Axat remained silent.
PRETENSIONS
 
 
Rochelle Botelli
Niente
Varina ca’Pallo
Sergei ca’Rudka
Nico Morel
Jan ca’Ostheim
Allesandra ca’Vörl
Brie ca’Ostheim
Niente
 
 
Rochelle Botelli
 
S
HE STARTED AT THE BEGINNING. “Rochelle is what my matarh called me. Rochelle was also the name of the first woman my matarh ever killed. I didn’t realize that for a long time, didn’t realize I’d been named after the first female voice to ever haunt her.”
The tale had come far easier than she’d thought it would. Perhaps it was because Sergei listened so well and intently, leaning forward eagerly to hear her words; perhaps it was because she found that it was something she’d wanted to share with someone, all unknowingly, for a long time. Whichever it was, the long story came tumbling out, with Sergei prodding her occasionally with questions: “Your matarh was the White Stone? The same?” or “Nico Morel? You say the boy was your
brother?
” or “You’re Jan’s daughter . . . ?”

Other books

A New Song by Jan Karon
Dancing on Dew by Leah Atwood
Revenger 9780575090569 by Alastair Reynolds
A Night with a Vampire by Cynthia Cooke
For Revenge or Redemption? by Elizabeth Power
Entangled by Annie Brewer