A Magic of Dawn (18 page)
Authors: S. L. Farrell
Jan clapped ca’Damont on the shoulder. “There, you see,” he told the children. “You have it from the Starkkapitän himself. He knows war better than any of us. I hope you’ve learned well, so when one of you is Hïrzg . . .”
“Let’s pray to Cénzi that isn’t for many decades yet, my husband.” The voice lifted up Jan’s head, and he saw Brie standing in the doorway and smiling in at the scene. He went to her, kissing her and embracing her briefly. She smelled of jasmine and sweetwater, and her hair—once the same color as Elissa’s, but darkening now—was soft even in the tight Tennshah braids that were currently so popular. If her figure had become heavier after bearing their children, well, that was like the scars on ca’Damont’s face: a sign of the sacrifices she had made.
Rance had told him that it was Brie who had sent away Mavel cu’Kella, and why. After his initial irritation, he was pleased: it saved him the trouble of doing the same.
“What’s going on here?” Brie asked. She looked at the children, at the servant holding Eria, at the nursemaid. “Rance told me you were still in conference, and we’re to be at the temple for the Day of Return blessing in a turn of the glass.” She shook her head, though the expression on her face was indulgent and serene. “And none of our children are dressed yet.”
“I’m sorry, Hïrzgin,” the nursemaid said, curtsying. “It’s my fault. I’ll get them ready. Elissa, Kriege, Caelor—come with me now. Quickly . . .”
Brie hugged each of them as they passed (Kriege still frowning and flushed with anger, Elissa with a tight-lipped smile of triumph, Caelor as always dour and pensive). “I should take my leave also,” ca’Damont said, bowing to Brie and Jan. “I’ll have my scribe write up the full report for you this afternoon,” he said to Jan. “And we’ll see what Ambassador ca’Rudka has to say when he arrives. I’m sure word will have come to him on his way here. Hïrzg, Hïrzgin . . .”
He bowed again and left them. As the doors to the chamber clicked shut, Brie went to Jan and hugged him again, tilting her face up for his kiss. She leaned back slightly in his arms, plucking at the collar of his shirt. “You’re wearing
this
to the ceremony?”
this
to the ceremony?”
“I was considering it, yes. It’s comfortable.”
“You look so handsome in that new red one, though.”
He smiled at her. “Then I suppose I’ll have to change to the red, just to please you.”
She kissed him again. “Armen had no trouble in Il Trebbio?”
“Less than I expected, actually.”
She nodded, her head against his shoulder. “The children have never seen their great-matarh, Jan. They only think of her as that awful woman in Nessantico who sometimes sends presents. I think you should consider what Sergei wants to offer her.”
“
She’s
the one responsible for the estrangement,” Jan said. “And Rance agrees with me that there should be no treaty with the Holdings. If she wanted peace, she shouldn’t have supported Stor ca’Vikej in West Magyaria, and she shouldn’t be letting his son hang around the court of the Holdings. She stuffed the mattress on which she lies; if she finds it uncomfortable, well, she’s the one responsible.”
She’s
the one responsible for the estrangement,” Jan said. “And Rance agrees with me that there should be no treaty with the Holdings. If she wanted peace, she shouldn’t have supported Stor ca’Vikej in West Magyaria, and she shouldn’t be letting his son hang around the court of the Holdings. She stuffed the mattress on which she lies; if she finds it uncomfortable, well, she’s the one responsible.”
“I know,” Brie whispered. “I know. But I still wish . . . Children should know their relatives, and not as enemies.”
“Then let her give up the Sun Throne entirely, rather than letting Sergei propose this nonsense of naming me as A’Kralj.”
“
You
put her on the throne, my love.” The rebuke wasn’t as harsh as it could have been, and she softened it by touching her hand gently to his cheek. “I know. You did what you thought was right at the time.”
You
put her on the throne, my love.” The rebuke wasn’t as harsh as it could have been, and she softened it by touching her hand gently to his cheek. “I know. You did what you thought was right at the time.”
“I was young and foolish,” Jan said. He opened his arms, releasing her. “And I don’t want to talk about this. Not now.” He grasped her hand and kissed it. “Let me have my
domestiques de chambre
find this red shirt you like so much, and we’ll go to the temple to make our appearance . . .”
domestiques de chambre
find this red shirt you like so much, and we’ll go to the temple to make our appearance . . .”
He heard the sigh she stifled, but she smiled up at him and stroked her hand down his chest, stopping just at his belt. “Don’t call them just yet,” she said. She raised up on her toes to kiss him again as her hand remained where it was. “There’s still time, isn’t there, my love?” she asked.
He laughed. “As much as we like. They can’t start without us, can they?”
He kissed her again, more urgently. He felt her body yield to his, and that drove away any other thoughts for a time.
T
HE CEREMONY STARTED LATE, since the royal party was tardy arriving at the temple. Rochelle, in the press of the common, unranked folk at the rear of the temple, had found respite in the lee of one of the interior half-columns on the back wall, leaning there with her eyes half-closed, her nostrils flaring at the stink of incense and her ears full of the prayer chants and the choir’s singing. She heard the seated ca’-and-cu’ rising from their seats as the wind-horns sounded their mournful call from the temple dome and the great front doors of the temple opened to admit the Hïrzg and his family. Bright sunlight streamed into the half-gloom of the temple. Rochelle opened her eyes fully; she stepped up onto the base of the half-column, allowing her to see over the heads of the congregation.
HE CEREMONY STARTED LATE, since the royal party was tardy arriving at the temple. Rochelle, in the press of the common, unranked folk at the rear of the temple, had found respite in the lee of one of the interior half-columns on the back wall, leaning there with her eyes half-closed, her nostrils flaring at the stink of incense and her ears full of the prayer chants and the choir’s singing. She heard the seated ca’-and-cu’ rising from their seats as the wind-horns sounded their mournful call from the temple dome and the great front doors of the temple opened to admit the Hïrzg and his family. Bright sunlight streamed into the half-gloom of the temple. Rochelle opened her eyes fully; she stepped up onto the base of the half-column, allowing her to see over the heads of the congregation.
The procession was headed by Archigos Karrol and several o’téni, wrapped in a fog of aromatic smoke from the censers, with four chanting light-téni bearing lanterns that burned with yellow flames brighter yet than the sun. The Archigos walked slowly, an o’téni on either side in case he stumbled—Karrol was seven decades and more of age, and though he was still as sharp-witted as ever, in the last few years his physical health had begun to decline and his attendants were always vigilant with him around steps and stairs, or when—as today—ritual demanded that he walk for a significant distance, though he was supported by the Archigos’ staff he clutched in his right hand, the bejeweled cracked globe of Cénzi at its summit. He wore green robes trimmed with golden thread, the patterns glistening in the brilliance in which he was bathed, his long white hair seeming to glow under the mitered crown. He lifted his free hand in greeting to the crowd, his mouth curving into a smile under his beard.
Starkkapitän Armen ca’Damont and his family followed next, then the members of the Council of Ca’ with their spouses and families. Rochelle rose on her toes to see better as Jan entered. Rochelle remembered her matarh—in the fewer and fewer lucid moments before the voices in her head overwhelmed her completely—talking about Jan, how handsome he had been, how he had held her, how he promised her that he would always love her.
How Jan had been her vatarh.
Rochelle’s matarh had loved Jan until her death, as she had also hated Kraljica Allesandra for having torn them apart.
Rochelle had seen paintings of him, and she had stared at the image, trying to see in it some hint of the features she glimpsed when she looked into a polished plate or still water. Perhaps that long, sharp nose? Or those high cheekbones? Her skin, duskier and more deeply and easily bronzed in the sun; did it speak of the Magyarias and the south where the Hïrzg had been born? Did those features come from her vatarh, and from her great-vatarh?
She had never seen him this closely in person—less than a stone’s throw away as he entered the temple. She peered anxiously in his direction.
He
was
handsome: a thin, dark beard along a firm jawline, a sharp, narrow nose (yes, much like her own), skin darker enough that it stood out among the Firenzcians in the temple; dark and intense eyes; hair curled and so dark as to be nearly black, though the sun sparked bronze-and-red highlights from it.
was
handsome: a thin, dark beard along a firm jawline, a sharp, narrow nose (yes, much like her own), skin darker enough that it stood out among the Firenzcians in the temple; dark and intense eyes; hair curled and so dark as to be nearly black, though the sun sparked bronze-and-red highlights from it.
Like her own hair. Like the face she sometimes glimpsed looking back at her.
Yes, he could truly be her vatarh. The tales that her matarh had told could be true. She felt her breath catch in her throat as he glanced around, as his gaze swept momentarily over hers. She raised her hand; he seemed to nod toward her, ever so slightly.
Next to him was the Hïrzgin Brie, and Rochelle saw Jan’s hand cup her waist as he leaned toward her and whispered something. She laughed, and Rochelle saw the affection in the woman’s eyes as she glanced at her husband. At Rochelle’s vatarh. And behind . . .
Behind were the children. Rochelle knew their names; everyone in Firenzcia knew them. She stared at them, her half sisters and -brothers. She yearned to call out to them.
“It should have been me with him,”
her matarh had said,
“with you as the eldest, the one he would dote on, the one who would always bring that smile to his face. He had such a wonderful smile . . .”
“It should have been me with him,”
her matarh had said,
“with you as the eldest, the one he would dote on, the one who would always bring that smile to his face. He had such a wonderful smile . . .”
Rochelle smiled at Jan but he was no longer looking in her direction and now he was past her, striding down the main aisle of the temple toward the quire where Archigos Karrol was already waiting. He was bowing to the ca’-andcu’ in the pews toward the front.
Rochelle imagined herself walking with him. Imagined the applause breaking over her. Imagined that Jan was tousling her hair rather than that of Elissa.
“That was my name: when I knew him, when we were lovers. That’s the name I’d taken at the time—Elissa. He named his firstborn after me. He did . . .”
The family—the family that might have been,
should
have been hers—was distant now, sliding into the empty seats before the High Lectern at the front of the temple, under the dome and the painted figures gazing down on the assembly from their frescoes. The e-téni at the rear of the temple were chanting, the energy of the Ilmodo closing the massive bronze doors, and Rochelle let herself drop from her perch to the floor. Moving lithely and quietly, she slipped outside before the doors closed.
should
have been hers—was distant now, sliding into the empty seats before the High Lectern at the front of the temple, under the dome and the painted figures gazing down on the assembly from their frescoes. The e-téni at the rear of the temple were chanting, the energy of the Ilmodo closing the massive bronze doors, and Rochelle let herself drop from her perch to the floor. Moving lithely and quietly, she slipped outside before the doors closed.
She hurried into the older and poorer sections of the city where she lived. That was another piece of advice from her matarh:
“Living among the rich makes you too visible. That was the mistake I made with your vatarh . . .”
She heard the temple wind-horns sounding Second Call and the end of the Day of Return blessing as she moved deeper into the narrow and twisted lanes that curled around the hills of Brezno, hurrying because she was late to an appointment.
“Living among the rich makes you too visible. That was the mistake I made with your vatarh . . .”
She heard the temple wind-horns sounding Second Call and the end of the Day of Return blessing as she moved deeper into the narrow and twisted lanes that curled around the hills of Brezno, hurrying because she was late to an appointment.
Someone wanted to hire the White Stone: Josef cu’Kella, who belonged to a rising family that seemed to have its hands in several businesses within the city. She wondered what excuse the man had used to avoid being at the temple this morning.
He should be waiting already outside the Blue Wisp, a tavern on Straight Lane—aptly named, for it arrowed up the steep slope of Hïrzgai Hill, on which sat the ruins of the first palais, burned and abandoned three centuries ago. The Blue Wisp was located halfway up the hill; she’d chosen it because she could approach it from either the top or bottom of the lane, giving her a good line of sight to determine if it were safe to approach or whether she should walk on past; in the last week since she’d completed the contract for the
goltschlager
ci’Braun, the utilinos and the Garde Brezno had been asking questions, carrying out strange raids, and taking certain women into custody throughout the city: women who nearly always were the age her matarh would have been if she were still alive, women who had the same general build and complexion as her matarh. It was obvious to Rochelle that they were hunting the White Stone. It was possible that cu’Kella was the bait in a trap meant to capture her.
goltschlager
ci’Braun, the utilinos and the Garde Brezno had been asking questions, carrying out strange raids, and taking certain women into custody throughout the city: women who nearly always were the age her matarh would have been if she were still alive, women who had the same general build and complexion as her matarh. It was obvious to Rochelle that they were hunting the White Stone. It was possible that cu’Kella was the bait in a trap meant to capture her.
She wondered, again, if she should be meeting the man at all, even if he was no more than a potential client. He was cu’, which meant that she could charge him handsomely for her services, but matarh had long ago warned her that the White Stone could perform two or, at the most, three contracts in a city before she would have to move on. She wanted to stay in Brezno, now that she’d seen Jan. She wanted to know more about him, wanted to know him better. Wanted to meet him. It would be best if she let the White Stone stay idle; she had coins enough in her purse.
But the truth was that she didn’t
want
to stay idle. There was an excitement to being the White Stone, to the hunt and the eventual kill.
want
to stay idle. There was an excitement to being the White Stone, to the hunt and the eventual kill.
One more contract. That would be all.
She could see cu’Kella already, wearing—as he’d been told—a red bashta and a hat with a blue feather in it. He looked uncomfortable, scanning everyone who passed as he stood shuffling outside the tavern’s door. Rochelle glanced to either side of the street; no utilino, no gardai of the Garde Brezno; no one standing close by pretending to be doing something else where they could easily watch the man. That didn’t mean there weren’t gardai hiding in the nearby buildings and watching, but so far everything seemed safe and normal. Rochelle continued to walk toward the man, deliberately not looking at him as she approached, pretending to be interested in the wares in the shop windows. In her peripheral vision, she saw him glance at her appraisingly, then look away again. She passed behind him, putting her hand on the hilt of the knife under her cloak. “Walk with me, Vajiki cu’Kella,” she whispered as she passed. She continued to walk on up the lane, slowly.
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