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Authors: S. L. Farrell

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BOOK: A Magic of Nightfall
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The cold shadow of Falwin’s statue touched her. She could see Archigos ca’Cellibrecca behind Fynn, and confusion and disbelief fought with horror on Semini’s bearded features. Allesandra thought there was near-disappointment in the way Fynn stared down at the body. Pauli pushed forward and came to a stunned halt alongside Fynn as Allesandra let her dagger drop from her fingers. It clattered loudly on the planks of the dais.
“I need to clean myself of this filth,” she told them calmly. “Fynn—talk to your people. Calm them. Reassure them. That’s what the Hïrzg needs to do.”
He scowled at her: as he always scowled when someone deigned to order him about. But he turned to the horrified, worried crowd, and he began to speak.
The White Stone
S
HE WATCHED THE ASSASSINATION attempt from within the crowd, unnoticed and safe.
How terribly clumsy,
she thought, as people gaped and shouted and screamed around her.
Clumsy and stupid
people gaped and shouted and screamed around her. Clumsy and stupid
to boot.
A knife was a much better weapon than magic. Stealth was much better than a brute attack. You should be there to see your victim’s eyes when you strike. You should see yourself reflected in his pupils. You should feel the heat of the blood washing over your hands.
She’d been taught her blade skills at an early age, in the warrens of An Uaimth. Her body still had the scars of those lessons, and she’d thought more than once that she herself would die of them. Her teachers were the dregs of society, the dark and twisted folk who were too violent and too twisted and too damaged to be tolerated by polite society. They were dangerous, and she had found herself abused and used and injured by them more than once. But they had physical skills she wanted, gained with blood and pain and fury. She had learned those lessons well, taking from each what she could.
She was never again going to let someone take advantage of her. She was never going to be weak. She was never going to let herself be vulnerable.
She had to kill a few of her “teachers,” when they became too dangerous or when they tried to become too close, when they began to pry or to guess her secrets. She had left her calling card with each of them, a white pebble over the left eye.
The White Stone . . .
She’d begun to hear the name, whispered in the streets.
He always leaves a stone on the left eye . . .
They always assumed it was “he”; that was protection, too. She could walk anywhere and never be suspected.
And they never knew there were always two stones; that she took one from victim’s right eye to keep with her. To keep
them
with her.
That stone was in the small leather pouch tied around her neck, nestled between her breasts under her clothing.
That
was with her always.
She touched the pouch now as the crowds surged toward the dais, as the A’Hïrzg stood up covered in the blood of the assassin and the new Hïrzg raised his hands to the crowds and called out for them to be calm.
The White Stone smiled at that.
Death . . . Death was always calm.
INCLINATIONS
Allesandra ca’Vörl
Enéas cu’Kinnear
Audric ca’Dakwi
Sergei ca’Rudka
Jan ca’Vörl
Allesandra ca’Vörl
Karl ca’Vliomani
Nico Morel
Enéas cu’Kinnear
Allesandra ca’Vörl
The White Stone
Allesandra ca’Vörl
“
I
T IS WITH MUCH PLEASURE and gratitude that I award you the Star of the Chevarittai. You may be young in years, Chevaritt Jan ca’Vörl, but I know of no one more deserving of the title.”
The applause welled out from those in attendance in the antechamber of the ballroom of Brezno Palais. Jan beamed as Fynn—wearing the golden band of the Hïrzg in his hair and the signet ring on his finger—pinned the gilded star on the red shoulder sash of his bashta, then handed him a gift that had belonged to Allesandra’s vatarh and Jan’s namesake: a sword of dark Firenzcian steel, hardened in fire and cold water and honed to a razor’s edge. Allesandra watched as Jan cupped his hand around the inlaid hilt of the weapon and placed it in the scabbard. Fynn tied the weapon to Jan’s belt, then clutched his nephew to him as the applause rose. Standing next to the two, Allesandra heard the words that Fynn whispered into Jan’s ear.
“That was a truly brave act, Nephew, though I was in no real danger. I would have certainly ducked out of the way of the fool’s spell.”
To Allesandra, the true fool was Fynn. His boasting was bad enough, and he’d ignored Allesandra’s part in having saved his life. It was as if she hadn’t been there at all, as if Jan had noticed the assassin all on his own.
She told herself that she didn’t care, that it simply met the low expectations she had of her brother, but the thought didn’t convince.
The door to the ballroom opened a moment later, and Fynn gestured. “Come, let us all enjoy this celebration,” he said to the ca’-and-cu’ and the gathered chevarittai. Fynn put his arm around Jan, and together they entered the ballroom as the musicians began to play and dozens of chanting e’téni lit the lamps of the room all at once. Pauli offered Allesandra his arm; she took it—
duty and appearance
—and they followed next. Behind them, Archigos Semini and Francesca entered.
Allesandra could feel Semini’s gaze on her back.
Following the assassination attempt, there had been a purge of anyone in Brezno suspected of being Numetodo. That, certainly, was also expected. There was another, somewhat less brutal purge within the staff of the new Hïrzg—confirming what Fynn had told Allesandra about how he would treat anyone who opposed him. Every servant, everyone below cu’ rank employed by the palais was questioned by the Commandant of the Garde Hïrzg. A half dozen staff members, suspected of Numetodo leanings, were taken to the Bastida to be interrogated more fully. The palais maister who had hired the would-be assassin was found guilty of negligence. His position was taken away, his family was humbled to ce’, and the maister himself lost his hands as punishment. The assassin’s family was rounded up; no one had seen them since they entered the Bastida. A Numetodo said to have aided the assassin was flayed, drawn, and quartered in Brezno Square, the executioner keeping him carefully alive as long as possible, his screams echoing among the buildings as the crowd watched and shouted insults and gibes toward the man. The assassin’s body, so unfortunately killed during the attack, was gibbeted and displayed in an iron cage swinging on a chain from Falwin’s sword. The gardai around the palais were doubled, with soldiers from the Garde Firenzcia brought in to supplement them. Rumors flitted through the city as quickly and numerous as sparrows.
Two ca’ had been killed in the attack by the errant spell; their funerals were elaborate and well-attended. Six more of the spectators on the dais had been burned and injured in the attack, four of them seriously; it was said that the coffers of the Hïrzg compensated them well enough to keep their families silent and satisfied.
Allesandra could still feel tension in the air, even during this celebration. The servants kept their heads judiciously down, and if anyone noticed the gardai lining the walls carefully watching the festivities or the remarkable number of téni in attendance, no one remarked on it. It was better to smile and stay silent.
Pauli danced with Allesandra once—the barest spousal requirement. As soon as the dance was over, he excused himself. She knew she would glimpse him only across the room henceforth, and soon she’d find him missing entirely to return to his own, separate, chambers in the visitor’s wing of the palais sometime early in the morning. Jan danced with her also, but his attentions were demanded by Fynn and by the crowds of sycophants around the Hïrzg. The young women, especially, seemed to find Jan’s presence quite pleasant. Allesandra decided that she would need to pay careful attention to Jan for the rest of the their stay in Brezno as she watched one of the young and unmarried ca’ women take her son’s arm and lead him onto the floor.
“You surprised me, A’Hïrzg.” Semini’s voice came from behind her. “I didn’t realize you had such deep love for your brother as to put yourself between him and an assassin, even if the Hïrzg seems to have conveniently forgotten that you did so.”
Allesandra glanced around them to be certain no one was within easy earshot, and then turned to the Archigos, leaning in toward him with a whisper. “And I was surprised that the Archigos would hire a Numetodo.”
His smile might have twitched slightly, his eyes might have narrowed. “I would
never
do that, A’Hïrzg.”
“There’s no need for false modesty, Semini,” she told him. “I thought the idea brilliant, when the irony struck me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, A’Hïrzg,” he answered stiffly.
“Ah, but you do,” she said. “And you’re now in my debt, Archigos. After all, the assassin wasn’t able to answer any embarrassing questions afterward, was he? That was
my
doing—for you, Archigos, though my brother was terribly disappointed that there was no one to torture afterward. Come, you want to know why I did it, don’t you? Let’s take some air, Archigos, where we can be seen but not heard.”
Allesandra led him to one of the open balcony entrances. The balcony was empty. She stood directly across from the doors, where anyone looking out would see them. The music wafted out past them and into the night; they could see the dancers, among them the Hïrzg and Jan. Allesandra turned to look at the grounds, alight with hundreds of téni-lights; a few couples were strolling there. “It almost reminds me of Nessantico and the Avi . . .” She turned from the railing. “Almost. I realize that I know very little about your personal life, Archigos. Have you ever been to Nessantico?”
Semini nodded his head. He was watching her as a wary dog might watch another. “I was ordained here in Brezno by Orlandi ca’Cellibrecca, my marriage-vatarh, but as a young o’téni I traveled with him to Nessantico several times when he was A’téni of Brezno.”
“Then you undoubtedly understand why Nessantico was always the center of the Holdings. There’s a grandeur and history there that one can’t feel anywhere else. You can understand why—some day when the Holdings are unified again—Nessantico will become the center of the known world once again. I’m certain of that.” She touched his arm; she could feel him draw back. “I want to thank you, Semini. You gave me the perfect opportunity to demonstrate to Fynn just how loyal I was to him—despite the way Vatarh disposed of me as heir, despite Fynn’s paranoia and suspicions toward me, despite all the arguments and quarrels we’ve had. He’ll never suspect again that I or Jan would conspire against him.”
Even in the dimness of the balcony, lit only by téni-lamps set on either end of the railings, she could see color darken his face. His hands made fists at his sides, and he looked away from her. He said nothing.
“Kraljiki Audric won’t live long, from what I’m told,” she continued. “I’ve discovered that I really don’t want to be the Hïrzgin, Semini. But when the day arrives that the Holdings become one again—let us say, under a Kraljica—it will need a strong Hïrzg to be the Holdings’ sword, the role Firenzcia has always played. Now, my son will make a grand Hïrzg one day, don’t you think? A wonderful leader.”
BOOK: A Magic of Nightfall
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