A Magic of Dawn (85 page)

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Authors: S. L. Farrell

BOOK: A Magic of Dawn
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A faint chuckle ran through the crowd at that comment, sounding out of place in the temple. “We have emerged victorious from a terrible war,” Jan said, “in no small part because of Kraljica Allesandra’s actions. I can only hope, in going forward, that I am able to emulate her, that I
can
be her son and build upon her legacy. The Holdings are one again, the Faith is one again, but there are challenges ahead that will test us—all of us. I know that she will be watching from the arms of Cénzi. I hope that we can make her proud of what we accomplish.”
Jan bowed his head. Rochelle thought that he might say more, but he gave the sign of Cénzi to the crowd and left the High Lectern—slowly, again, the sound of his cane loud in the silence. He returned to his seat as the A’Téni and her attendants moved back to the altar. As they began to circle the bier, chanting and waving censers, Rochelle sank back into her niche, putting her spine to the cold stone.
What do I do, Vatarh? What do I do to make you proud of me?
She could feel the hilt of the knife pressing into her side as she crouched against the temple’s buttress. If Nessantico was to be her vatarh’s passion, as it had been Allesandra’s, if—as he had said was true of Allesandra—the Holdings were to be his one true child, then she would share that passion with him. Rochelle’s matarh had given her a singular skill; she would use it, then.
I won’t be the White Stone, no, but I can become the Blade of Nessantico.
She nodded. She would stay in the shadows. She would truly be Jan’s daughter. She would serve the Holdings in her own way.
Yes.
The choir began to sing once more, and she closed her eyes, letting herself sink into the ethereal sound, as insubstantial and mysterious as she would be.
 
The procession around the ring boulevard of the Avi a’Parete was long and slow and—Jan could see by the throngs that lined the Avi waiting for the Kraljica to pass by—necessary. The populace stood several hands deep on both sides of the Avi for the entire length of the boulevard, as far he could see. Their faces were solemn; many were weeping openly. Jan realized then that as Allesandra had loved the city, it had come to love and appreciate her in return.
He could only hope they would do the same for him in the coming years.
He grimaced as the carriage in which he rode found a jagged hole in the pavement, the impact pushing his cracked ribs together, the pain radiating all the way to his shoulders. The cuts the healers had sewn closed days ago pulled as he tried to make himself comfortable in the seat. He struggled to show as little of his discomfort as possible to the crowds. He smiled; he waved. And on his hand, the signet ring of the Kralji glistened.
The funeral procession for Allesandra echoed that for the great and beloved Kraljica Marguerite. None of the Kralji between Marguerite and Allesandra had been given such a formal display. Kraljiki Justi, Marguerite’s son, had been mocked and loathed; the people of the city had actually
rejoiced
at his death, and his bier had gone directly from the Archigos’ Temple to the palais. His son Audric’s reign had been worse, though Sergei’s short regency had kept the city stable. But once the regency ended prematurely, Audric’s madness and erratic behavior had damaged the Holdings even further, and his assassination had—many thought—been a blessing. Kraljica Sigourney, Audric’s successor, had committed suicide as the Tehuantin sacked and burned the city, and her body had been desecrated by the Westlanders: Jan remembered that all too vividly.
With Sigourney’s death, with the city a smoking ruin around him, Jan could have taken the title of Kraljiki himself; he’d chosen to give Nessantico and the Holdings to his matarh instead: a gesture of mockery.
She had turned his mockery into a true gift, he had to admit. That was evident now.
Jan’s carriage, drawn by three white horses in a four-horse harness, followed immediately behind the bier. He could hear the chanting of the téni who walked alongside the bier, which appeared to float in a white cloud. Above the body, huge images of the Kraljica appeared and vanished again: there she was as she appeared in her official portrait; there she dedicated the rebuilt dome of the Old Temple, there she smiled as she descended from the balcony during the Gschnas.
The smell of trumpet-flowers accompanied her, and the sound of the musicians in the open carriage ahead of the bier, playing Darkmavis and ce’Miella: a fusing of ancient and modern.
The old giving way to the new. Jan found it compelling.
“Look—they’re cheering for you, Vatarh,” Elissa said happily, pointing and waving herself. And it was true, as the bier passed, as their open carriage followed, the mourning morphed into applause and smiles. “They like you.”
“They’re cheering because they don’t have a choice,” Jan told her, and Brie frowned.
“Jan . . .”
“It’s true, and the children should understand that,” he answered her. He leaned forward across to where the children were sitting, ignoring the pull of the stitches and the twinge in his chest. “The people will applaud you as long as they think you’re going to keep food in their bellies and a roof over their heads. They’ll applaud you when they fear you, too, because they’re afraid that if they don’t, they’ll be punished. Don’t mistake their smiles and applause for anything more than a facade.”
He felt Brie’s hand on his arm. “Darling, please. They don’t understand what you’re saying, and you’re just scaring them. And you shouldn’t be so cynical. Not today of all days.”
She was right, and he knew it. He glimpsed the ornate handle of the sparkwheel fitted to an embossed leather holder on her belt: the gorgeous sparkwheel Varina and the Numetodo had presented to her after the battle. The citizens of Nessantico
were
cheering Brie, he knew: the success of the sparkwheeler corps in the battle was already a legend in the city, and it appeared that the A’Hïrzg in Brie had become the favorite of the city. “I’m sorry,” he told her, told the children. “You’re right . . .”
They continued around the ring boulevard, and he continued to smile and wave. Because it was expected. Because it was his duty. They clattered over the Pontica A’Kralji, where, in iron gibbets, the skeletal body of the Westlander war-téni Sergei had killed and the Westlander Tehuantin were displayed in gory triumph. Jan barely glanced at their bodies.
The procession ended at the courtyard of the Kraljica’s Palais at dusk. The bier floated on its mage-cloud to the summit of the pile of oil-soaked timbers set well away from the wings of the palais: the pyre that would send Allesandra’s soul into the arms of Cénzi, placed in the center of the Kraljica’s gardens. The ca’-and-cu’ of the city and of the Holdings and Coalition both, the chevarittai in their dress uniforms of blue and gold or black and silver, Sergei ca’Rudka, Starkkapitän ca’Damont, Commandant ca’Talin of the Garde Civile: they were all here, watching as Jan and his family descended from their carriage.
Jan looked a last time at his matarh’s body. He nodded to Talbot, who gestured to the fire-téni arrayed around the pyre. Their hands danced an intricate ballet together; their voices mingled in a slow chant. Fire bloomed orange-red between their hands as they gestured, as if tossing petals toward the pyre. Flames crackled and hissed in fury, licking at the oil and climbing rapidly. The mage-cloud vanished under a pall of writhing white that rose to the height of the palais roof before the wind smeared it across the sky. The flames touched the bier itself; Jan could see trumpet-flowers withering and curling under as Allesandra’s body became lost in the heat waver and smoke. The furious crackling and popping of the fire echoed from the walls of the palais and the insistent heat drove everyone a few steps back from the pyre.
A log collapsed in the pyre, sending sparks coiling wildly upward. Jan realized that he’d been watching the fire burn for far longer than he’d thought, that the sky was growing dark.
“We can go now, Kraljiki,” Talbot said. The title sounded strange to Jan. “They’re ready in the hall . . .”
The Hall of the Sun Throne was packed. The windows in the long room flickered red with the flames of the pyre, while the great window behind the throne showed the dusk sky, already a deep violet with the first stars beginning to glisten above. The Council of Ca’ was seated before the throne, with the other dignitaries. A’Téni ca’Beranger waited with Talbot alongside the Sun Throne. Brie gave the children to the nursemaids and approached the dais of the throne alongside Jan.
The Sun Throne. The massive chair sculpted from a single massive crystal towered more than two men high, a mottled, semitransparent white. It loomed over Jan and Brie. As he stared at the throne, he twisted the signet ring on his hand, the gold and silver of the ring cold and smooth on his flesh. “This is what you were meant for, my husband,” Brie whispered to him. He glanced over to her, saw that she was looking at his hands. “You know that,” she said. “Your matarh did, too.”
“She had a strange way of showing it.”
“She was meant for it also. That was the problem.” She gestured toward the throne. “There it is,” she said. “It’s yours, my love.”
Jan glanced toward Talbot. He nodded. Behind a door at the far rear of the hall, just behind the throne, two light-téni were chanting. Talbot had told him how in the last century, the Sun Throne barely reacted to the signet ring, that it was instead the work of especially trusted and skilled light-téni who ensured that the proper response came when a Kralji sat on the crystal.
Jan had laughed at that revelation—another sham, another show.
Jan ascended the dais, A’Téni ca’Beranger giving him the sign of Cenzi as he passed. On reaching the throne, he turned to face the crowd. They were watching him, all of them.
He sat. The crystal around him erupted with brilliant yellow light, seeming to emerge from the hidden depths of the throne. Kraljiki Jan sat, bathed in that light, as the audience rose in thunderous applause.
 
“I’ll always wonder what the Holdings might have been had you lived,” Sergei said to the portrait of Kraljica Marguerite. “I’d love to know what you think of things now.”
The wine he’d had was making his head spin a bit. Downstairs, in the palais, the celebration for the new Kraljiki was still going on while, outside, the embers of Allesandra’s pyre glowed red in the night. Sergei had slipped away from the festivities via the servants’ corridors to come up here—to the chambers that had been Allesandra’s and which were now Jan’s. A goblet of wine still in his hand, he raised it to Marguerite’s portrait as he lounged in a chair. A small fire—set to take away the evening chill—crackled in the hearth below the portrait, the fire and the candles lit to either side giving a wavering illumination that lent animation to Marguerite’s painted, stern face. He could imagine her stirring, opening her mouth to talk to him . . .
It was an unnerving sensation, bringing back memories of Audric and his madness.
Sergei took a long sip of the wine and, with his free hand, reached into a pocket of his bashta. He retrieved a smooth, pale pebble. He rubbed its polished surface between his fingers. Wine sloshed over the rim of his glass with the motion and threw bloody droplets on his bashta. He didn’t care.
“Marguerite, we both loved this city and this empire so much that we were willing to do anything for her. Anything at all. I wonder . . . Did she love us back for our passion and our faith? Did she care? Did you sometimes regret your life the way I do? Hmm . . . Somehow, knowing you, I doubt it. You were always so sure of yourself.” He lifted the goblet to her in salute, then brought it to his mouth and tilted it, draining the wine in a long gulp. He set the goblet down on the table next to him and reached for his new cane, lifting himself from the chair with a grunt and a moan. “You’ll have a new relative to stare at tonight,” he told Marguerite. “Let’s hope he’s a good one, as strong as you were.”
He realized he was still holding the stone. He held it up to his ear. “I don’t hear anyone,” he said. He tapped the stone on his nose, listening to the ring of stone on metal. He laughed, weaving slightly as he stood there, and placed the stone back in his pocket. “What becomes of us when we’re gone?” he asked the painting. “Does Cénzi really wait there to judge us? I’d appreciate a sign, Marguerite. I really would.”
The painting stared at him in the firelight. Marguerite’s painted gaze refused to let him go. Finally, Sergei rubbed at his nose and sniffed. “No answer, eh?” he said. “You always did keep your secrets. Well, I suppose I’ll find out soon enough.”
He bowed to the painting, nearly falling as he did so. He patted the stone in his pocket. He left the room, leaving the goblet on the table, and, stumbling, made his way down the back stairs again. As he reached the servants’ corridor nearest the Hall of the Sun Throne, he could hear the noise of the revelers, still chattering. He went in the other direction, making his way out into the garden. The cool night air seemed to clear his mind. He could smell the odor of ash and woodfire—far out in the gardens, servants were raking and spreading the coals of the pyre. He shook his head, rubbed at his stubbled cheeks. He walked around the side of the palais toward the Avi a’Parete, still crowded with pedestrians and carriages even this late. Across the Pontica a’Brezi Veste, he could see the tower and walls of the Bastida.

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