A Magic of Dawn (3 page)
Authors: S. L. Farrell
“I’ve always loved the Gschnas,” Sergei told her. “I’m glad you’ve brought back the tradition, Kraljica. Nessantico
needs
her traditions, especially after the last few years.”
needs
her traditions, especially after the last few years.”
Especially after the last few years.
The comment tightened her lips and narrowed her eyes. “You needn’t bring
that
up now, Ambassador,” she told him. The history was never far from anyone’s mind in Nessantico: the horrible cost of recovery after the Westlanders nearly destroyed the city, the continued separation of the Holdings and the Coalition nations, and most recently, the political and military disaster in West Magyaria.
The comment tightened her lips and narrowed her eyes. “You needn’t bring
that
up now, Ambassador,” she told him. The history was never far from anyone’s mind in Nessantico: the horrible cost of recovery after the Westlanders nearly destroyed the city, the continued separation of the Holdings and the Coalition nations, and most recently, the political and military disaster in West Magyaria.
“Then I won’t,” he answered. “Though I do need to talk with you about the Firenzcian spy that Talbot believes he’s discovered . . .” As Sergei talked, she looked away from the images of herself on his clothing to the crowd that pressed in around them. She saw a man staring at her. He was handsome, his skin somewhat darker than most of those in the hall, his head entirely shaved, though his beard was full and midnight-black. His clothing was loose and wildly-colored, and feathers sprouted from the shoulders as if he were some exotic bird. His eyes—behind a beaked demi-mask—were strangely blue and light, his gaze piercing and keen. He saw her attention and he nodded slightly toward her.
Sergei was still talking. “. . . already has the traitorous servant in the Bastida, so he’ll be no more trouble. But there are still the Morellis—” He stopped as she raised her hand.
“Who is that man?” she whispered to Sergei, glancing again at him. “He looks Magyarian.”
Sergei followed her gaze. “Indeed, Kraljica. That is Erik ca’Vikej. He’s just come to Nessantico yesterday. There’s undoubtedly a note on your desk from him requesting an audience. I haven’t had the chance to speak to him myself yet.”
“Stor ca’Vikej’s son?” The man had truly wonderful eyes. He continued to regard her, though he made no move to approach.
“The same.”
“I will see him,” she told Sergei. “In the south alcove, a mark of the glass from now. Tell him.”
Sergei might have frowned, but he bowed his head. “As you wish, Kraljica,” he said. His cane tapped on the marble floor as he left her side, his costume sending motes of light fluttering. Allesandra turned away, nodding and conversing with others as she moved slowly around the hall. Talbot came to her side, having paid and dismissed the téni who had helped with her descent, and she told him to clear the south alcove. She continued on her procession around the room. A’Téni ca’Paim, the head of the Faith in Nessantico, dressed tonight as one of the Red Moitidi, was approaching. “Ah, A’Téni ca’Paim, so good of you to attend, and your téni have done a wonderful job this evening . . .”
A mark of the glass later, Allesandra had made a circuit of the hall and moved past the line of servants Talbot had set around the alcove to keep away the crowd. She took a seat there, listening to the music. A few moments later, Sergei approached, with ca’Vikej just behind him. “Kraljica, may I present Erik ca’Vikej . . .”
The man stepped forward and performed a deep, elaborate bow. She remembered that bow: a Magyarian form of courtesy. The ca’-and-cu’ of West Magyaria had bowed the same way for her late husband Pauli, who had become Gyula of West Magyaria after their rancorous separation, only to be assassinated by his own people eight years later. Two years ago, Eric’s vatarh, Stor, had tried to step into the vacuum left by Pauli’s death.
Allesandra had made the decision to back him. That choice had turned out to be a poor one, the full extent of which was still be determined. She’d made the choice to send only a small part of the Holdings army to support Stor ca’Vijek’s own troops. That had doomed them, and the effort had ended in a military defeat for the Holdings at the hands of Allesandra’s son, Hïrzg Jan.
“Especially after the last few years . . .”
Sergei’s comment still rankled.
Sergei’s comment still rankled.
“Kraljica Allesandra, it is my pleasure to meet you at last.” The man’s voice was as stunning as his eyes: low and mellifluous, yet he didn’t seem to notice its power. He kept his head down. “I wanted to thank you for your support of my vatarh. He was always grateful to you for your championing of our cause, and he always spoke well of you.”
Allesandra searched his voice for a hint of sarcasm or irony; there was none. He seemed entirely sincere. Sergei was looking carefully to one side, hiding whatever he was thinking. Close, she could see the gray flecks in ca’Vikej’s beard and the lines around his eyes and mouth: he was not much younger than she was herself—not surprisingly, since Stor ca’Vikej had been elderly when he’d tried to take the Gyula’s throne. “I wish events had gone differently,” she told him. “But it wasn’t Cénzi’s Will.”
The man made the sign of Cénzi at that statement—he was of the Faith, then. “Perhaps less Cénzi than circumstances, Kraljica,” he answered. “My vatarh was . . . impatient. I’d counseled him to wait for a time when the Kraljica and the Holdings could have supported us more openly. I told him then that the two battalions you sent were the most he could expect unless he waited, but . . .” He shrugged; the motion was as graceful as his manner. “I warned him that Hïrzg Jan would come down with the full fury of the Firenzcian army.”
Yes, and Sergei told me the same thing, and I didn’t believe him.
She nodded, but she didn’t say that. Handsome, modest, polite, but there was ambition in Erik ca’Vikej as well. Allesandra could see it. And there was anger toward the Coalition for his vatarh’s death. “You are more patient than your vatarh, perhaps, Vajiki ca’Vikej, but yet you want the same thing. And you’re going to tell me that there are still many Magyarians who support you in this.”
She nodded, but she didn’t say that. Handsome, modest, polite, but there was ambition in Erik ca’Vikej as well. Allesandra could see it. And there was anger toward the Coalition for his vatarh’s death. “You are more patient than your vatarh, perhaps, Vajiki ca’Vikej, but yet you want the same thing. And you’re going to tell me that there are still many Magyarians who support you in this.”
He smiled at that: graceful, yes. “Evidently my head is entirely transparent to the Kraljica.” He swept a hand over his bald skull. He managed to look almost comically bemused. “Next time, I should perhaps wear a hat.”
She laughed softly at that; she saw Sergei glance at her oddly. “Supporting your vatarh as much as I did nearly brought me to war with my own son,” she told him.
“Family relationships too often resemble those between countries,” he answered, still smiling. “There are some borders that must not be crossed.” He cocked his head slightly as the musicians started a new song out in the hall. He held his hand out toward Allesandra. “Would the Kraljica be willing to dance with me—for the sake of what she meant to my vatarh?”
Allesandra could see the slight shake of Sergei’s head. She knew what he was thinking as well:
You don’t want reports to get back to Brezno that you are entertaining Stor ca’Vikej’s son . . .
But there was something about him, something that drew her. “I thought you were a patient man.”
You don’t want reports to get back to Brezno that you are entertaining Stor ca’Vikej’s son . . .
But there was something about him, something that drew her. “I thought you were a patient man.”
“My vatarh also taught me that an opportunity missed is one forever lost.” His eyes laughed, held in fine, dark lines.
Allesandra rose from her chair. She took his hand.
“Then, for the sake of your vatarh, we should dance,” she said, and led him from the alcove.
I
T WAS DIFFICULT TO BE STOIC, even though she knew that was what Karl would have wanted of her.
T WAS DIFFICULT TO BE STOIC, even though she knew that was what Karl would have wanted of her.
Karl had been failing for the last month. Looking at him now, Varina sometimes found it hard to find in the drawn, haggard face the lines of the man she had loved, to whom she’d been married for nearly fourteen years now, who had taken her name and her heart.
Because he was so much older than her, she had feared that their time together must end this way, with him dying before her.
It seemed that would be the case.
“Are you in pain, love?” she asked, stroking his balding head, a few strands of gray-white hair clinging stubbornly to the crown. He shook his head without speaking—talking seemed to exhaust him. His breath was too fast and too shallow, almost a panting, as if clinging to life required all the effort he could muster. “No? That’s good. I have the healer’s brew right here if that changes. She said that a few sips would take away any pain and let you sleep. Just let me know if you need it—and don’t you dare try to be brave and ignore it.”
Varina smiled at him, stroking his sunken, stubbled cheek. She turned away because the tears threatened her again. She sniffed, taking in a long breath that shuddered with the ghost of the sobs that racked her when she was away from him, when she allowed the grief and emotions to take her. She brushed at her eyes with the sleeve of her tashta and turned back to him, the smile fixed again on her face. “The Kraljica sent over a letter, saying how much she missed us at the Gschnas last night. She said that her entrance went better than she could have wished, and that the globes I enchanted for her worked perfectly. And, oh, I forgot to tell you—a letter also came today from your son Colin. He says that your great-daughter Katerina is getting married next month, and that he wishes . . . he wishes you . . .” She stopped. Karl would not be going to the wedding. “Anyway, I’ve written back to him, and told him that you’re not . . . you’re not well enough to travel to Paeti right now.”
Karl stared at her. That was all he could do now. Stare. His skin was stretched tautly over the skull of his face, the eyes sunken into deep, black hollows; Varina wondered if he even saw her, if he noticed how old she’d become as well, how her studies of the Tehuantin magic had taken a terrible physical toll on her. Karl ate almost nothing—it was all she could do to get warm broth down his throat. He had difficulty swallowing even that. The healer only shook her head on her daily visits. “I’m sorry, Councillor ca’Pallo,” she said to Varina. “But the Ambassador is beyond any skill I have. He’s lived a good life, he has, and it’s been longer than most. You have to be ready to let him go.”
But she wasn’t ready. She wasn’t certain she would ever be,
could
ever be. After all the years she’d wanted to be with him, after all those years when his love for Ana ca’Seranta had blinded him to her, she was to be with him only for so short a time? Less than two decades? When he was gone, there’d be nothing left of him. Karl and Varina had no children of their own; despite being twelve years younger than Karl, she’d been unable to conceive with him. There’d been a miscarriage in their first year, then nothing, and her own monthly bleeding had ended five years ago now. There were times, in the last several weeks, when she’d envied those who could pray to Cénzi for a boon, a gift, a miracle. As a Numetodo, as a nonbeliever, she had no such solace herself; her world was bereft of gods who could grant favors. She could only hold Karl’s hand and gaze at him and hope.
could
ever be. After all the years she’d wanted to be with him, after all those years when his love for Ana ca’Seranta had blinded him to her, she was to be with him only for so short a time? Less than two decades? When he was gone, there’d be nothing left of him. Karl and Varina had no children of their own; despite being twelve years younger than Karl, she’d been unable to conceive with him. There’d been a miscarriage in their first year, then nothing, and her own monthly bleeding had ended five years ago now. There were times, in the last several weeks, when she’d envied those who could pray to Cénzi for a boon, a gift, a miracle. As a Numetodo, as a nonbeliever, she had no such solace herself; her world was bereft of gods who could grant favors. She could only hold Karl’s hand and gaze at him and hope.
You have to be ready to let him go . . .
She took his hand, pressed it in her fingers. It was like holding a skeleton’s hand; there was no returning pressure, his flesh was cold, and his skin felt as dry as brown parchment. “I love you,” she told him. “I always loved you; I will always love you.”
He didn’t answer, though she thought she saw his dry, cracked lips open slightly and then close again. Perhaps he thought he was responding. She reached for the cloth in the basin alongside his bed, dipped it in the water, and dabbed at his lips.
“I’ve been working with a device to use the black sand again. Look—” She showed him a long cut along her left arm, still scabbed with dried blood. “I wasn’t as careful as I should have been. But I think I may have really stumbled upon something this time. I’ve made changes to the design and I’m having Pierre make the modifications for me from my drawings . . .”
She could imagine how he might answer
. “There’s a price to pay for knowledge,” he’d told her, often enough. “But you can’t stop knowledge: it wants to be born, and it will force its way into the world no matter what you do. You can’t hold back knowledge, no matter what those of the Faith might say . . .”
. “There’s a price to pay for knowledge,” he’d told her, often enough. “But you can’t stop knowledge: it wants to be born, and it will force its way into the world no matter what you do. You can’t hold back knowledge, no matter what those of the Faith might say . . .”
Downstairs, she could hear the kitchen staff beginning to prepare dinner: a laugh, a clattering of pans, the faint chatter of conversation, but here in the sickroom the air was hot and still. She talked to Karl mostly because the quiet seemed so depressing. She talked mostly because she was afraid of silence.
“I spoke to Sergei this morning, too. He said that he’ll stop by tomorrow night, before he goes off to Brezno,” she said in a falsely cheery voice. “He insists that if you won’t join him at the table for dinner, he’s going to come up here and bring you down himself. ‘What good is Numetodo magic if you can’t get rid of a little minor illness?’ he said. He also suggested that the sea air in Karnmor might do you some good. I might see if we could take a villa there next month. He said that the Gschnas was ever so nice, though he mentioned that Stor ca’Vikej’s son has come to the city, and he didn’t like the way that Kraljica Allesandra paid attention to him . . .”
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